


Right in Front of Me

by Elle_Morgan_Black



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ancient magic, F/M, Forced Marriage, Friends to Lovers, Post-War, Wizard Law, marriage law
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-10-31 09:52:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17847164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_Morgan_Black/pseuds/Elle_Morgan_Black
Summary: The marriage law has left them with limited options, so in desperation Hermione Granger turns to her best friend. Sometimes it turns out that the best option is the one that’s been right in front of us all along. [on hiatus]





	1. An Unfortunate Law

**Author's Note:**

> This story was meant to be part of the Harmony & Co’s Valentine’s Shag-A-Thon fest, but I blew past the word limit and didn’t finish in time, so you get this now as a standalone story. It’s almost finished and will be 10-12 chapters. I plan to update 2-3 times a week until it’s fully posted. Many thanks to The Frumpologist for reading this at roughly the halfway point and convincing me that I had to finish it, rather than toss it out.
> 
> -Elle

 

Chapter 1 - An Unfortunate Law

If I looked back at the last year or so with the power of hindsight, I perhaps could see the signs I’d ignored at the time. But I had been too busy to see, too wrapped up in my work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and too focused on the drama of my daily life to pay much attention to anything else.

Thus the announcement of a marriage law took me wholly by surprise, and I read the announcement in the “Daily Prophet” with horror.

I knew there had been concerns about the small size of the population after the war and the fall of Voldemort, but it had honestly never occurred to me, a muggleborn, that the Wizengamot might take such drastic action as forced marriage and reproduction. It was archaic, it was barbaric, it went against everything I held dear, everything I believed about freedom, bodily autonomy, and the role of government in the lives in its citizens, and I did not hesitate to tell Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt all of that - loudly - to his face.

Unfortunately for me and a bunch of other wizards and witches, the Minister refused to be swayed by my arguments and pleas, and I was sent away to stew in my frustration. Too many generations of inbreeding amongst purebloods, too many arranged marriages between magically incompatible wizards and witches and too many wars had led to a population in freefall.

Everyone of child-bearing age was being forced into matrimony. No matter what. No matter how loudly I protested to the press, to the government, to anyone who would listen.

As sorry as I felt for myself, I could not help but feel even worse for the marriages that were dissolved under the act. If a couple had not yet produced a child with demonstrable magic, they were subject to the act as well and had to undergo testing to determine whether the combination of their magics could produce magical offspring. For weeks the pages of the “Daily Prophet” were filled with sob stories of couples in love whose marriage bonds were severed due to ‘magical incompatibility.’

I thought it ableist in the extreme, frankly, that the Ministry would break up otherwise happy couples because their magical incompatibility meant they were highly unlikely to conceive a healthy magical child. And yet, deep down, I could not help but think that that if given a choice, I would want my future child to be magical. Magic was an integral part of who I was, and with my parents lost to me after the war, their memories of me long gone, the magical world was all I had left, and the magical world was not a hospitable place to a child born without magic.

My friends’ reactions to the law generally matched my own. Harry was outraged, as were the rest of our friends. Neville and Luna had wed only months before and were both relieved to discover they were magically compatible and would be permitted to stay together. Seamus Finnigan announced that he’d rather leave Britain altogether than marry a witch when he preferred wizards, and he departed for Ireland at once, slipping out of the country on a muggle airplane before he could be stopped by the Ministry.

I considered fleeing as well, and I tried to talk Harry into going with me. He was hesitant of course. I’d known he would be. He had never traveled outside of the United Kingdom, and he did not even have a proper muggle passport. He no longer had contact with his muggle relatives, and he’d made a home here in the magical world.

After the war, Harry had chosen to spend his free time and money fixing up 12 Grimmauld Place, cleansing it of all dark magic and restoring as much of it as he could to its former glory. I stayed with the Weasleys the summer after the war, but I soon felt smothered there, overwhelmed by the sheer number of people, by Molly’s mothering, and by the way everyone tried to convince Ron and me to rush into marriage. I went back to Hogwarts with Harry for an additional 8th year of school after the war, and I stayed with the Weasleys during Christmas hols whilst Harry returned to Grimmauld Place. I did not last the whole holiday before cramming my belongings into my trusty beaded bag and showing up on Harry’s doorstep.

Four years had passed since then, and I had not left.

Life with Harry was easy. It was like living in a tent together all over again but with plenty of food and comfortable and spacious accommodations. We knew each other inside and out. He tolerated my stacks of books and parchments everywhere, and I didn’t nag when he came back from a pick-up quidditch game with his friends and left his gear in front of the fireplace for me to trip over when I floo’d home. We both understand what it was to be orphans and how hard it was to be a part of the magical world yet feel as if we weren’t fully there because of our muggle childhoods. We just fit together.

Harry had a job he loved as an Auror and a comfortable place he’d made his home. He didn’t want to leave it all behind. His own heated conversations with Kingsley Shacklebolt had left him convinced that the Ministry would never let the Boy-Who-Lived out of this law, and that leaving would only result in us being hunted again, as we had been during the war. By the time I managed to convince him that perhaps it really would be best to flee, to head somewhere like Australia or the United States, it was too late.

International portkey travel was severely restricted and charms were put in place to detect wizards trying to leave the country via airport or through the Chunnel. It was more than a little bit terrifying, not to mention utterly infuriating. THIS was what we fought a war for? This was our outcome? Forced marriage? Forced reproduction? Restrictions on travel?

I was still trying to figure out how to be an adult. I had no business being anyone’s mother. The very thought was horrifying, almost as horrifying as the idea that I’d won a war only to lose control over my own body and life.

For his part, Harry apologised profusely for being the reason I couldn’t get out of Britain, for holding up my escape. He clearly felt really terrible about it. I did my best to assure him it was okay before putting up silencing charms in my room and crying all night. What I wasn’t able to admit at the time, even to myself, is that I don’t think I could have left Harry behind. He’d been my best friend since that Halloween in our first year at Hogwarts. My life without Harry Potter in it just didn’t seem like an option.

~oOo~

In the two months following the dreadful marriage law announcement, I did my best to keep my head down and figure out how to best proceed once it was clear I’d have to stay in the UK. Ron came to me right from the start and proposed. Once upon a time, I would have been thrilled by such a proposal, but the time for girlish daydreams of white dresses and bouquets of roses and Ron in dress robes at an altar had long faded into cold, hard, truth: Ron and I were not well suited to each other. We wanted different things in life - namely I wanted a career and to change the world, and he wanted what his parents had: a family and a wife at home with a passel of children. Still, he proposed, and he was rather put out when I declined, having convinced himself beforehand that there was surely no way I’d turn him down.

I was also owled no less than four times by Cormac MacLaggen, who proposed marriage, pending proof of magical compatibility. If Cormac and I were compatible, then I was prepared to declare the whole testing process utter bullshite. I respectfully declined his proposals, but he didn’t seem to understand the word, “no” any more than Ron did.

In the years after the war, Harry had done his best to fade from the public eye. He was an Auror, of course, and he enjoyed his career, but he steadfastly avoided galas, fundraisers, and high-profile social events. Still, the allure of “The Boy Who Lived” had not faded, and Harry was beset by marriage offers from witches across Britain who hoped they’d be magically compatible. It got bad enough that I had to charm both his office and Grimmauld Place to block delivery of most of his mail.

The Ministry set up a new office within the Department of Vital Records to test magical compatibility. Harry and I both steered clear of it. Once you were tested, their spellwork would scan the magical signatures of everyone else who’d already been tested and spit out a list of possible matches for you. As subsequent wizards and witches were tested, you’d continue to receive owls with new matches. It was basically a crapshoot - test early and grab a match whilst that person was still available or wait and hope for better options? Or I suppose there was the third option Harry and I had chosen: ignore it all and pretend it’s not happening.

My colleagues spent less time working and more time panicking or rejoicing over their test results whilst I stewed in the background, angry about the lack of actual work being accomplished.

We were only given a measly three months to find a spouse. Anyone who’d not entered into a betrothal contract by that point would be matched by the Ministry, with an effort made to pair the most compatible people together. The idea that I might end up with a 7th year student at Hogwarts or a wizard many years my senior was abhorrent to me, but it wasn’t like I was in love and had a significant other who couldn’t wait to live happily ever after with me. The short timeline should have sent me into a panic, but I was so angry over the whole thing and so resentful that I was _still_ having to fight battles in the magical world that I had little room for panic.

Four days after Harry and I put the kibosh on trying to escape Britain, Draco Malfoy sauntered into my office and plopped down in a chair like he owned the place. He then slapped a copy of what looked like a family tree on the table, followed by the report on his magical signature.

“What’s this?” I asked with a frown. Malfoy and I had come to a truce of sorts in our 8th year at Hogwarts, but we were far from friends. I saw him occasionally at the Ministry, and that was about it. I didn’t hate him, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I necessarily liked him either.

“The Malfoy family pedigree.”

“Yes, I see that. Why is it here?”

“You’ve not been tested, have you, Granger?” he asked, eyeing me carefully.

“No. Nor am I in any hurry.”

“I’ll spare you the surprise then. We’re a match.”

I gaped at him. “What makes you so certain of that?”

“Look at it,” he said, motioning to the family tree. “Generation upon generation of purebloods marrying other purebloods. My family frequently marries witches from France, Germany, Switzerland, and other European countries, so we’re significantly less inbred than the rest of the Sacred 28 families.”

“Congratulations then on not being your own cousin,” I said dryly.

“Thank you. I am rather proud of that. As you lack magical ancestry, there’s virtually no chance we’re related at all, which means we’re a match.”

I frowned at him again. “Kingsley was clear this wasn’t about blood status. Magical compatibility doesn’t have anything to do with blood status.”

“Do you really believe that? Look at this list,” he said, motioning to another parchment.

I scanned through the short list of witches. There was only one I recognised, a half-blood witch who’d been in Ravenclaw.

“There’s not a single pureblood name on my list, Granger. I’ve talked to some of my mates, and to others at the Ministry. With few exceptions, the purebloods are getting lists of muggleborns and half-bloods.”

I froze, my hands clenched around his list. As if being married off like a piece of property wasn’t bad enough, I was apparently going to be sold into marriage to some inbred pureblood, if Malfoy was correct.

“So why me?” I asked. “You have at least one witch on here who is a half-blood.”

He snorted. “Believe it or not, I don’t particularly care about your blood status, as much as I about having magical children. I’d marry a muggle if I knew it meant I wouldn’t have a squib as an heir.”

“Charming,” I muttered as I studied his list again.  
  
“Granger, look realistically at this situation: there are only so many muggleborns in our world.”

“Yes, attempted genocide tends to do that to a population. Funny how that works.”

He ignored my jibe.

“So if compatible magic is based at least in part on having no blood relation, then purebloods and muggleborns are likely to be good matches. But as I said, there aren’t that many of you. Not sure how many half-bloods are in the age cohort affected by the law, but I can’t imagine it’s a huge number.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that if they’re finding the best matches is couples with from differing… backgrounds… there aren’t going to be enough muggleborns and half-bloods to go around. Not everyone is going to get a great match. I’ve got a short list, with varying degrees of match. As more and more couples pair up and marry off, the list of those remaining gets smaller and smaller. There’s a cutoff, at which point the Ministry feels the couple are not compatible enough, and they won’t approve a match. The closer you are to that cutoff, the greater the chance of being stuck in a forced marriage that produces squibs. That’s unacceptable to me.”

I paused and let that sink in. “I’m not sure that your science is accurate there, Malfoy.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Regardless, I’m not willing to take a chance. I want the best possible match, and I’m prepared to bet a very large sum of galleons you’re it. I won’t expect much from you. If you want to keep your job doing… whatever it is you do here, I won’t object, as long as you provide me with an heir. You can donate generously to whatever bleeding heart cause you’re supporting these days, and I can guarantee you’ll have a very comfortable life.”

I sat back in my chair and studied him for a long moment. Draco Malfoy had grown into his pointed features a bit with age, and if I was very honest with myself, I’d have to admit that objectively speaking, he was attractive. Unfortunately, he was also still a spoiled git, and I was fairly certain we’d kill each other within the first month of marriage, assuming we were even compatible. And that didn’t even touch on the fact that his father was a war criminal and his mother looked at me like something foul she stepped in on the street.

“This is probably the least romantic proposal I’ve ever had,” I mumbled, more to myself than to him.

He stared at me for a moment and then sighed heavily.

“Hermione Granger, will you marry me?”


	2. Chaos and Matches

Chapter 2 - Chaos and Matches

 

I told him no, of course. I wasn’t prepared to marry anyone, and certainly not a former school rival who’d watched as I was tortured on the floor of his family’s ancestral home. Besides, as objectively attractive as he might have become, the idea of having _sex_ with Draco Malfoy made me instinctively want to cringe.

Naturally though Malfoy, being Malfoy, took that to mean “not yet.”

I managed to shove him out of my office by promising to at least ‘consider’ his offer. After getting rid of him, I slammed the door, silenced my office, and screamed myself hoarse in frustration.

It was late when I arrived home that night, dusting floo powder and ash from my wrinkled robes. Harry was seated on the sofa in faded jeans and a t-shirt, an open bottle of firewhiskey in front of him.

“Uh oh. The last time you broke out the firewhiskey, it was the night that pompous arse in the Department of Sports and Games tried to sell you his underage daughter in marriage,” I observed. If Harry was drinking like this, it was not a good thing.

The pressure I felt from wizards like MacLaggen and Malfoy was nothing compared to what Harry had to endure. After the law was passed, he’d ignored all inquiries about his marital plans because he was focused on working with me to find a way out of this mess. Reality slapped us both in the face a week ago at a Ministry event when said pompous arse offered Harry a sizable dowry for the hand of his 15-year-old daughter, currently residing in Gryffindor Tower.

Neither of us had been aware that underage witches and wizards were even allowed to marry. They weren’t subjected to this tragedy of a law until they came of age, but apparently they could be tested for magical compatibility, with parental permission, and married off to a ‘suitable’ match, again with parental permission. When we came home that night, Harry proceeded to get shit-faced, and I sat up with him, not daring to match him drink for drink, as we both cursed the Ministry.

Now Harry sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Yes, well, this all pales compared to that, I suppose.”

I shrugged out of my outer robe and kicked off my sensible heels before curling up on the sofa beside him. “More of the same with this bloody marriage law, or something else?”

“Marriage law. What else?”

“Are you going to tell me?”

He leaned forward and refilled his glass and poured me one as well. I did not frequently imbibe, especially not in something as strong as firewhiskey, but given our situation, it seemed like a good enough idea.

“The magical signatures of all of the Aurors are on file at the Ministry,” he said.

“Yes, for record-keeping and security purposes. That’s always been the case, hasn’t it?” I asked, delicately sipping my whiskey.

“Yes, well, it’s _supposed_ to be under lock and key, but somehow someone got access to it,” he said tightly.

“Do I want to know?”

“Someone - and I don’t know who but my guess is Percy Weasley - copied the information in my file. Because I have deliberately _not_ gone for the Ministry’s official recording of magical signatures.”

He took a large gulp of whiskey, and I frowned at the mention of the upcoming test I’d also avoided taking. Eventually we’d have to cave. Eventually we’d have to be tested.

“Apparently I’m a match for Ginny,” he said softly, looking away from me.

I opened my mouth to respond but found I wasn’t sure what to say. Harry and Ginny had made a go of a relationship in the aftermath of the war, and it was clear from the start - to me at least - that the two were a poor fit for each other. Molly pushed hard for the couple to marry straight away, as soon as we graduated from Hogwarts. Ginny emerged from school with seemingly grandiose visions of a fantasy life: marriage to The Boy Who Lived, a professional quidditch career, a grand manor home somewhere, and an active social life, rubbing elbows with the wealthy and powerful in their world. She simultaneously played lip service to the idea of wanting a quiet life with marriage and children, the family Harry had never had and always wanted, whilst also dragging him to an endless stream of social events and opportunities to pose for the cameras.

It was a dizzying year or so in which I watched my best friend try to his best to be the wizard Ginny felt she deserved. War changed people, and it had not changed Ginevra Weasley for the better. She was tired of poverty, tired of sacrifice, tired of being told ‘no’ by anyone.

The relationship was bound to fail, and it did, spectacularly, when Ginny threw a fit about me living with Harry. Ginny and Molly both had never approved of Harry and me living together, and Ginny eventually snapped, accusing us both of various and sundry misdeeds, the least of which was infidelity. The idea that Harry would cheat on anyone was so utterly preposterous, and the idea that he’d cheat with ME was laughable. We’d never so much as even kissed on the lips. Harry and I were like brother and sister. That’s how it had always been between us.

The blow up between Harry and Ginny was documented with numerous magical moving photos of Ginny yelling at Harry in Diagon Alley. I could barely leave my office or Grimmauld Place for a solid two weeks after that. The sheer number of howlers I received was shocking, and Harry was livid.

Of course, it didn’t take long for Ginny to realise she’d acted in haste. She tried to recant the whole thing and begged for him to take her back, but Harry had had enough.

Their breakup had painful reverberations. The Weasleys closed rank around Ginny, viewing the first witch born into the family in generations as horribly wronged by the boy they’d taken in and loved as one of their own. Ron and I were still in our on-again, off-again relationship, both of us uncomfortable and unhappy but neither fully willing to call the whole thing off for good. When Ginny and Harry broke up, Molly badgered Ron until he gave me an ultimatum: move out of Grimmauld Place and marry him, or we were through. I chose to walk away.

Harry and I were suddenly cut off from the closest thing we had to family in the wizarding world. No more invitations to Sunday dinners. No more knitted jumpers at Christmas. It was a rough adjustment for both of us, but ultimately it brought us closer together as friends, knowing that we could truly only rely on each other.

Knowing now that he was forced to wed and that he was magically compatible with Ginny Weasley was certainly a reason for Harry to drink. After everything that had happened with them, I was surprised that Ginny had the gall to even approach Harry.

I took a long gulp from my own glass, coughing as the liquid burned my throat.

“The universe has a sick sense of humour,” he said bitterly.

“Did she come to you? Is that how you know your information was compromised?”

“Yes. Showed up at my office, all smiles, waving her parchments about, talking about what a brilliant match we were.”

I cringed. There was absolutely nothing subtle about Ginny, and I could picture the scene all too easily.

“What did you tell her?”

“That I had no intention of marrying her because it was clear we’d make each other miserable, and that I would be filing a report with the DMLE because someone had illegally accessed my file, as I’d not gone in for the actual test. It got her out of there quickly. But it was an unpleasant reminder that I’m running out of time.”

He tossed back the rest of his drink and went to pour another. I steadied his hand, and he paused.

“Don’t get drunk. Seriously. This is bad enough without the two of us getting pissed,” I said.

He sighed again and leaned back on the sofa. “How was your day?”

I snorted in response.

“What?” he asked.

“Malfoy asked me to marry him.”

“WHAT?” he jumped up so suddenly that he wobbled a bit on his feet, making clear that he was not fully sober.

“Yeah. Sit down, and I’ll tell you about it.”

Harry sat, and I filled him in on the conversation I’d had with our former school nemesis.

“You… you aren’t thinking about it, are you?” he asked when I finished.

“Oh god no. Can you imagine? We’d kill each other, and that assumes that Lucius Malfoy lets me live long enough to actually say ‘I do.’”

He was silent for a moment and then laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“Can you imagine? You could use all his Galleons to start up SPEW. You could bankrupt him freeing the elves!”

In his inebriated state, this was clearly the funniest thing Harry had considered in a time, and he laughed until he realised I was not laughing.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said, leaning his head down on my shoulder. “You being married to Malfoy would be awful.”

“Yes, it would be. And Harry, it wasn’t SPEW. It was S.P.E.W.”

Harry was silent for a long moment, and I savoured being here with him. All too soon it would be wrenched away from us, and I’d be married off to some wizard, cast out from Grimmauld Place to Merlin-only-knows-where. Would Harry and I be able to spend any time together? Would another witch be there for him the way I was? Harry could easily fall into periods of melancholy, and I was the only one who could pull him out. What would he do without me? What would I do without him?

“We’re going to have to get tested,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“I fucking hate the Ministry.”

“I know. Me too." 

He fell asleep curled up beside me on the sofa. I covered him with a blanket before I headed upstairs to bed.

 

~oOo~

 

We went for testing together. We’d done just about everything else together, so why not this as well? A dour-looking witch with grey hair and a double chin put us in separate rooms, where some sort of diagnostic spell took a measure of my magic whilst I completed some basic spells. It was honestly a bit anticlimactic.

Apparently there was a bit of a backlog on the results, so Harry and I left together with the promise that a list of compatible matches would be sent to us later that day. We both blew off the rest of the afternoon, unable to concentrate on work.

In the months after the war, Harry opted to cope with nightmares and insomnia by baking. He’d done plenty of cooking living with his awful aunt and uncle, so I thought it an odd habit to take up as a means of coping. After I moved in with him, I found myself migrating to the kitchen to cook with him. I’d never really learned to cook as I was always far more interested in reading or learning magic, and it gave Harry a sense of purpose to teach me. Well, that, and it inflated his ego to know there was something other than quidditch and flying that he could do far better than I could.

So after our tests, we ended up in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, peeling apples the muggle way and making pie dough from scratch. By the time the pie and a dinner of roast chicken and vegetables was in the oven, he’d received owls from no less than a half dozen witches.

“I feel like I’m being circled by vultures,” he said, glaring at the array of owls lining the window sill.

“I’m honestly feeling a bit put out at the moment,” I said teasingly, attempting to lighten his mood. “I haven’t received any owls. And we haven’t even received our own lists yet!”

“Yeah, but you’ve got Ron, Cormac and even Malfoy after you.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Don’t remind me.”

Three more owls joined the fray then. Two bore the marking of standard Ministry owls, and the third was a majestic eagle owl - a beautiful beast. It nipped at some of the other birds, causing squawks and a few feathers to fly. Several of the owls reluctantly left letters behind, apparently no longer willing to wait for a response from Harry.

The eagle owl refused Harry and instead flew my direction, landing on gracefully on the table I’d just wiped clean.

“A bird that haughty and pretentious could only belong to someone like Malfoy,” Harry observed, leaning back against the sink.

The wax seal on the letter the owl presented to me bore the Malfoy insignia. “Right in one,” I mumbled as I opened the envelope.

“Well?” he asked after a moment as I tried to take in the words on the page.

“Malfoy says he and I are a confirmed match, and he wants to meet to discuss a formal betrothal.”

The words stuck in my throat. Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. It was so absurd it was almost laughable. Me. A mudblood. Soiling their hundreds of years of perfect, pure blood with my muggle-ness.

I looked up at Harry. His lips were pressed in a tight line, and he looked like he was holding back his anger.

I had no intention of replying to Malfoy today, but his stupid bird refused to move from the table until I scribbled a note in response that I was not prepared to entertain any offers at this time and sent it off with the owl.

That left the two Ministry owls.

“So I guess this is it,” I said, forcing a lighter tone to my voice, even though I felt like my heart was about to fall through my body onto the floor. The rest of my life was likely laid out in that letter with a list of names and a statement of compatibility.

We took our letters, and I tried not to look at Harry. My hands shook as I unrolled the parchment and skimmed quickly over the perfunctory information at the top of the page: we were required to marry, and any matches on the list were deemed acceptable to the Ministry, however if I did not accept a spouse from this list by the end of the grace period or come forward with a betrothal to another suitable match, the Ministry would match me with the most magically compatible person still available, starting with any marriage offers that had been made for me at the Office of Vital Records and Registration. We would be required to wed within three months of betrothal, the marriage had to be consummated within 24 hours to seal the marriage rite and the magical bond, and I had to be pregnant within a year of marriage. The Ministry expected all couples to produce a minimum of two children within five years, and generous financial bonuses would be awarded to couples who exceeded the required two children, escalating drastically in price the more children you had. It was nauseating.

 _Names, where were the names_ , I wondered as I read further.

Draco Malfoy. _Draco-sodding-Malfoy_ was on my list. The spoiled arse was right about us being a match. The list was much longer than I anticipated though, and I read on.

Roger Davies. Ravenclaw. Older than me. He’d been Fleur Delacour’s date for Yule Ball in my 4th year. I didn’t really know him, but he seemed better than Malfoy. One name looked vaguely familiar, and I thought it was someone who worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Another I recognised as a much older member of the Wizengamot, old enough to be my father, and I cringed at the thought. I cringed further when I saw Ronald Weasley, followed by two wizards I thought were Weasley cousins. A few more names I didn’t recognise. Theodore Nott - Slytherin, my age, always knew the answer when called upon in class but rarely volunteered information. That was about all I knew of him. Marcus Belby. Another Ravenclaw. I had vague memories of him from Slug Club. More names I didn’t recognise.

And then… there.

At the bottom of the list. A name I’d not expected.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

Harry James Potter.


	3. A Crazy Idea

Chapter 3 - A Crazy Idea

 

“Well,” Harry said slowly. “That’s...interesting.”

I looked up at him at the same time he looked over at me.

“What?” I whispered. “Who did you get?”

“A long list,” he said.

“Same. It, um, it kind of lends credence to Malfoy’s theory that muggleborns and half-bloods will be more compatible to more people because we’re not as inbred,” I said, before internally cringing at the school marmish way I sounded.

“Your list all purebloods?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Mostly. Lots of purebloods, although some of them could be half-bloods. I don’t know everyone on this list. And then there’s you. You’re on my list.”

His eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, crinkling the lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

“Who did you get?” I asked, not giving him a chance to respond to the news that he was on my list.

He ran his fingers through his hair and scanned the parchment with a frown on his face.

“Ginny, for starters, so I guess her claim that we matched was accurate. Both Patil twins. Cho Chang. A bunch of names I don’t recognise because they’ve apparently just finished Hogwarts or they’re more than a few years older than we are. Mandy Brocklehurst. Who is Layla Dearborn? That sounds familiar.”

“She works in my office,” I said quietly, thinking about my coworker. Layla was four years older than Harry and me both and beautiful. She’d married during the war but was widowed soon after and had yet to remarry. She was wickedly smart, funny, and charming. Harry would like her if he got to know her, I was certain of that. An uncomfortable feeling of jealousy welled up inside of me at the thought of Harry with my colleague.

“Oh.”

“Who else?”

He lifted his head then, and his green eyes met mine.

“You.”

 

~oOo~

 

I had matched with a very high confidence level to Harry, Malfoy, and Ron, which I supposed was proof that magical compatibility and personal compatibility were not the same thing. Harry had matched with similarly high levels to Ginny, Layla, me, and a 19-year-old witch he’d never met named Esme Balfour.

Neither of us was seemingly willing to commit to picking a name from our respective lists, so we instead sat down to dinner in uncomfortable silence, both of us deep in thought. I could not possibly imagine Harry agreeing to marry Ginny after all of their fights and the way she’d accused him of infidelity, so I picked at my dinner that night, feeling deeply unsettled and hating the idea that my best friend was likely going to marry Layla or this Esme person. After all, it was laughable to think that Harry would willingly marry me. It would be… almost incestuous, wouldn’t it? We were the best of friends, as close as siblings. Harry said that once, to Ron: “I love her like a sister.”

Harry’s morose mood seemed to mirror my own, and so after dinner, he brought out the alcohol again. I didn’t object.

“So who is it going to be then - Ron or Malfoy?” he asked, handing me a shot glass. “Or are you going to take your chances with whatever’s behind door number 3? Technically anyone on your list should be compatible enough to make magical babies.”

I downed the whiskey in one go and cringed both at the burning in my throat and at the idea of being married to either of them, or to someone I did not know.

Ron would want me to stay at home and have a large family. He’d always resented my career and my devotion to my work when we were together, and I could not see that changing if we were forced to wed. Images of a lifetime as Mrs. Ronald Weasley stretched out before me in my mind, and it was not a wholly pleasant picture: years of nagging him to clean up after himself, to help out with the children. Years of dealing with his insecurity and his need for attention and additional mothering. Molly Weasley hadn’t been a bad mother, but with seven children (not to mention Voldemort’s return and a war), a lot got lost in the shuffle, and Ron had had an extra dose of feeling insignificant as the sixth boy to come before his parents finally had a girl. I shuddered at the thought of having a family that large. Just spending the holiday at the Burrow after the war had been overwhelming, and I wasn’t particularly keen on being expected back there for weekly Sunday dinners as an official member of the very family who’d cut me off before. Our previous relationship was proof that Ron was happy to defer to his mum on far too much, and I wasn’t keen on the idea of that continuing into marriage.

But then, it was not as if Draco Malfoy was any better. His father was a convicted war criminal, recently released from Azkaban, who might try to murder me before I could debase the family’s purity by bearing a half-blood child. His mother was one of those women who never looked as if she had a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her robes. It was downright Stepford-esque, and I was about as far away from that as a witch could get. I’d been literally tortured in their family home by Draco’s aunt whilst the family stood around and watched. I’d punched Draco once in school, and he’d called me vile names and said he hoped a basilisk ate me. Not exactly the right sort of foundation for a marriage. Then again, he’d said he wouldn’t interfere with my career, and that was an enormous plus. Okay, fine, the _only_ plus.

Of course, if I could ever get this insanely stupid law repealed and we could go our separate ways, Malfoy was undoubtedly the safer choice as he’d surely be willing to ditch me for a proper pureblood princess of a wife. Ron on the other hand would probably never want to let me go, and I’d have to deal with a good 20 years or so of Molly constantly hovering and badgering me about my parenting skills. Assuming Lucius Malfoy didn’t try to kill me, I figured he’d probably be all too happy to disown any half-blood grandchildren and pretend they did not exist.

“I’d like to avoid a lengthy stay in Azkaban, so who do you think I’d be less likely to kill?” I asked, pouring myself another shot and gulping it down quickly.

Harry emitted a bit of a nervous laugh and took a shot of his own. “Blimey. Um. Honestly? That could go either way. Arthur and Molly may have been upset you wouldn’t marry Ron before, but at least they probably won’t kill you in your sleep? If you marry Malfoy, someone - maybe George, maybe Dean Thomas, I don’t know - will get a pool going on how long it will take for one of you to snap and maim the other.”

I downed another shot and then set the glass aside to put my face in my hands. This is what my life had come down to. Picking a spouse based on who I thought was less likely to result in someone committing a serious crime.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled into my palms. “I don’t want to deal with this.”

I looked up at Harry in time to watch him do another shot. At this rate we would be completely inebriated very soon. Normally I was not one for heavy drinking like this, and neither was Harry, at least not before this insane law was passed, but the occasion sure called for it. Forced marriage, possibly to our exes? Forced reproduction? That’s pretty tough to take sober.

“What about you?” I asked, not wanting to think too hard about my own future.

“Well, Ginny should be a ‘no,’ given how everything went before,” he said. “But I don’t know Layla or Esme. I mean, what is it they say? Better the devil you know?”

I’d barely eaten at dinner, and the alcohol was going quickly to my head. The realisation that my best friend had just inadvertently called Ginny Weasley a devil was suddenly very funny, and I giggled until Harry looked at me as if I’d gone barmy. When I told him why I was laughing, he joined in until my laughter turned to tears.

I ended up in Harry’s arms, a drunk, teary mess. He held me close and stroked my hair, making soothing mumbled noises until he admitted that he’d gotten a finger stuck in my thick tangle of curls, an action that led to more drunk laughing.

“I don’t want to marry any of them. I don’t know those two witches. And as for our former classmates, if I’d ever wanted to marry any of them, I’d have done so already. Or at least dated them,” he said into my hair, resting his chin on my head.

I shifted on the sofa to make myself more comfortable. I felt safe here with Harry. I always had. I didn’t want to give this up.

Then again, perhaps I did not have to.

My name was on Harry’s list, and his was on mine.

Was it such a crazy thought? The two of us together?

I pressed my head against his chest and listened to the steady sound of his heartbeat. We could certainly tolerate living together, and no one knew him as well as I did. The longer I laid there, the more it sounded like a good idea.

“Hey?” he prompted, tugging lightly on my hair.

“Hmmm?”

“You’re too quiet. You’re either about to fall asleep on me, or your brain is going a million kilometers a second. Which is it?” he asked teasingly.

I lifted my head and gazed into his green eyes. My best friend, he was my very best friend, and I could not imagine leaving him for anyone.

“Harry?” I whispered.

“Yeah?”

Maybe it was the alcohol in me, the so-called ‘liquid courage’ or maybe that dose of bravery was just an inherent part of me, part of why I’d been sorted into Gryffindor.

I decided to go for it before I changed my mind.

“Maybe we should get married. To each other.”

 

~oOo~

 

He blinked at me for a moment, digesting my words. Then he sat up, pushing me upright with him. The room spun a little bit as he did so, and I regretted taking so many shots.

“What did you say?” he asked hoarsely, fixing me with an intense gaze.

“We could get married. To each other,” I repeated.

He opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off, afraid to hear a ‘no’ from him.

“If you think about, logically, it makes the most sense. I’m on your list. You’re on my list. We already live together and have for years. We know each other better than anyone else, and we know we can get along together. You don’t care that I have a career, and you know that I won’t want to drag you to a bunch of stuffy, boring events so the press can gawk at us. I won’t have to worry about Lucius Malfoy killing me in my sleep, and you won’t have to worry about someone wanting you for your fame or your family’s vault.”

I was babbling by that point, and I wanted to continue. I felt like I _should_ continue, because I knew I wasn’t doing the best possible job of selling this to Harry, not whilst under the influence of so much alcohol.

He looked like he was trying to get a word in edgewise though, so I stopped talking and started worrying that I’d made an utter fool of myself.

He ran his fingers through his perpetually messy hair and stared at me for an interminably long moment.

“It’s...it’s not a bad idea,” he said softly.

My heart soared at the realisation that he wasn’t saying no, at least, not yet anyway.

“But you… you know that if we do this, we’d have to… _be_ together. I mean, that stupid fucking law requires consummation of the marriage and, and _children_.”

My face felt hot, and I was fairly certain I was blushing profusely at that point. I’d never considered sex with Harry, not really. I mean, sure, we’d lived together for years, and during that time, I’d seen him in his boxers or wandering about in just his pyjama bottoms. I’d watched as he’d morphed from a scrawny teenager into an attractive adult. Regular meals after the war had helped him finally put on some weight and keep it, and he’d had a rather large growth spurt in our 8th year at Hogwarts. He was in peak shape because of his work, and his body was all lean muscles. He kept his hair relatively short, and more days than not, he sported a five o’clock shadow. Yes, Harry Potter had grown into a man I could find attractive.

I realised he was looking at me as if he expected a response.

“I, um...I know. I can’t imagine marriage and sex with a stranger. And I’d rather, um, well, I mean, I’ve been with Ron, and I’d rather not go back to him, and don’t even get me started on Malfoy. I’d rather be with you than either of them.”

Shit. That sounded like he was the default for me, the lesser of three evils.

“I mean, it’s not like you’re an awful choice or anything. You’re attractive. I mean, clearly, you know this because enough witches throw themselves at you. So it’s not like it would be some terrible sacrifice on my part if we had to, you know.”

His eyebrows arched up as I spoke, and then he laughed.

“I think this might be the most inarticulate I’ve ever seen you,” he said in a teasing voice.

I recoiled from him then, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. I’d put myself out there, and whilst he had not explicitly turned me down, he’d not taken me up on my offer either. I felt embarrassed that I’d even suggested it.

I had no illusions about myself and my value - or lack thereof - as a potential spouse. I was not what anyone would ever call “beautiful.” My features were plain: brown eyes, brown hair, tanned skin that got too dark and too freckled too quickly if I spent much time in the summer sun. My hair was an unruly mess most of the time: I simply had too much of it, and the curls were prone to bushiness if the humidity exceeded 10%. I was not good at anything overly feminine. I rarely wore makeup or bothered with hair products or beauty charms. I didn’t care one whit about fashion, and my wardrobe could only be described as “serviceable.” Even now, under my plain white blouse and grey skirt, I wore basic white cotton undergarments. I’d never be able to compete with witches like Ginny Weasley or Layla Dearborn who knew how to look feminine and stylish and pretty.

“Look if you don’t want me, just say so,” I mumbled as I poured and then downed another shot. Alcohol was absolutely the last thing I needed, given how inebriated I was already, but it was something to do with myself and a way to try to quiet my racing thoughts.

“No. No, I mean, it’s not that. I just…”

His voice trailed off, and I dared to look at him then. Harry was facing me on the sofa, looking at me as if I was someone he didn’t know but who looked somehow vaguely familiar to him.

“We’ve never… you’ve never…” he ran his fingers through his hair and muttered a curse word under his breath. He took the firewhiskey from me and poured himself another shot, downing it quickly.

“You don’t think of me that way,” I said softly. To my surprise, I felt the first pricks of tears in my eyes, but I stubbornly blinked them back. I wasn’t going to allow myself to cry if Harry rejected me.

He reached out then, almost hesitantly and his fingertips brushed my cheek and my jaw, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine.

“Can I?” he asked softly.

I wasn’t sure what he was asking, but I nodded anyway. I trusted Harry, explicitly, and whatever he wanted to do, I figured it wouldn’t be bad.

He leaned in toward me, and I realised then that he intended to kiss me. My alcohol-addled brain started churning at a rapid pace. The idea of kissing Harry was more than a little intimidating. What if it was awful? What if it felt like kissing my (admittedly non-existent) brother? I’d just suggested we marry, but if this kiss was terrible, surely we’d both have to admit that this was just a really horrible idea.

Before I could react, Harry’s lips touched mine. His kiss was tentative at first, a gentle press of the lips, once, then twice, and I gasped in spite of myself. And then...I don’t even know how it happened, but somehow we went from that initial, cautious kiss to something...other-worldly.

His hands caressed my face and wound into my hair and curved around my waist and pressed down the length of my spine. His tongue was suddenly in my mouth, and he tasted of whiskey and spice and fire and home and everything familiar and comforting.

I kissed him back. I let him lead, let him explore my mouth, and then I gave just as good as I got, sliding my tongue against his, pressing my body closer, clutching at his hair and his clothes. His body was lean and hard against mine, and he felt _good_.

Why had I been worried about this, I wondered to myself. This was so much better than I could have anticipated.

I heard a soft moan, and I wasn’t sure if it came from him or from me, but I couldn’t be arsed to care. All I knew then, in that moment, was that my world had tilted on its axis. Up was down and left was right, and everything I thought I knew was all wrong because somehow the most amazing snog of my entire life was happening with the one person I’d never previously considered an option. I _wanted_ Harry Potter.

The room was spinning, and I was panting, and then his mouth - _oh God_ \- his mouth was on my ear, his teeth tugging at my ear lobe in a way that made me arch my back and moan and roll my hips, and I needed more. I needed _so_ much more. It had been so embarrassingly long since I’d had a good snog.

I don’t know how we moved or how it happened, but I was suddenly on my back on the sofa, with Harry on top of me, doing something utterly sinful to my neck as I grasped handfuls of his hair and shamelessly spread my legs and wrapped them around his waist. He rutted against me, and even through our layers of clothes, I could feel his erection, and _holy shit_ , it felt like Harry was rather obscenely endowed.

For practically my whole life, I’d been the bookworm, the quiet one, the one others thought of as studious and boring and probably asexual in some way, but the truth was that I had desires and needs just like anyone else, and I wanted - desperately wanted - someone to make me burn with passion and make me feel wild and free and feminine and sexy. And in this drunken moment, it seemed like Harry… my best friend, the wizard I’d known since we were kids, the wizard I’d never allowed myself to view as a potential partner, as a possible life-mate, just might be able to do that for me.

I tugged his hair, pulling his mouth back to mine with a frantically whispered, “Kiss me,” before our lips met again. We were wearing too many clothes, and I was hot, and the room was most definitely still spinning. We pulled at clothes, and I think a button was wrenched from my blouse, but it didn’t matter because I had my hands on Harry’s bare back, and he was pressing hot kisses down my throat, past my collar bone, and across my chest.

I wanted him, I wanted him like I’d never wanted anyone before, and I knew then that I could marry Harry Potter and be very happy as his wife.

Harry kissed over the top of my breast, his tongue sliding over the soft flesh just above the plain white bra I wore, before he pressed a kiss into the skin over my rapidly beating heart.

And then it happened.

I felt...a _jolt_ of some kind.

It felt almost like a shock, perhaps?

I had never felt anything like it before.

I had a moment of drunken absurdity in which I figured that it would just be my rotten luck to have a heart attack just when I was about to get lucky for the first time in ages.

“Did you…?”

I realised then that Harry had jerked back from me, lifting his head from my chest, and staring at me wide-eyed.

“What?” I gasped.

“Did you feel that?”

He glanced down at my chest and then at me again.

“Wait - you felt that?” I asked breathlessly.

“Yeah. It was like...like being shocked, like an electric shock, but not painful. It almost felt like… _magic_.” He sat up then and ran his fingers through his thoroughly wrecked hair.

Magic. Well, that was certainly unexpected, although I supposed within the realm of possibility given that I was a witch and he was a wizard.

“I’ve never… has that ever happened to you?” I asked. I was relieved that I wasn’t having a heart attack, but a part of me was also annoyed because if there was going to be something weird happen, _of course_ it would happen to Harry bloody Potter.

He shook his head and then blushed as he looked down at me, and I was suddenly acutely aware that my blouse was wide open and my breasts were on display in what was surely one of my least attractive bras.

“We, um, we should stop,” he muttered.

I laid there trying to catch my breath as he backed off of me until he was seated on the other side of the sofa with a pillow in his lap to hide the obvious tent in his trousers. I pushed myself up to a seated position and tried to button my blouse, but I was apparently more inebriated than I’d realised because I couldn’t seem to get the damn thing back together.

“You want to stop?”

“Yeah I...I’m really drunk,” he admitted. “And if I’m drunk, you’re utterly wasted.”

“The room is spinning,” I said, “But I don’t want to stop.”

He rubbed at his face as if he was in pain.

“Believe me, neither do I, but we’re both drunk, and I don’t want to do anything that either of us will regret in the morning.”

“Oh.” I felt suddenly very insecure, holding my blouse together. I’d acted so very wanton, so out of control, so totally unlike myself. I’d suggested that we get married, I’d snogged him until we’d literally been jolted by, well, by our own magic I supposed, although I had no idea what that even meant. And he hadn’t even answered my damn question about marriage.

“Look, Hermione, I think we should finish this conversation when we’re both sober,” he said softly.

I don’t know that he intended to be hurtful, at least I don’t think he did, but I felt as if I’d been doused in cold water. I was, in his words, utterly wasted, and horny as hell and throwing myself at him, and he was turning me down. It was a bitter pill to swallow when I knew that most wizards would have been fucking me six ways from Sunday by now.

I couldn’t look at him at that point because Merlin only knew what sort of drunken nonsense would come out of my mouth. A tactical retreat was most definitely in order. I mumbled something about needing to go to bed then, and I quickly stumbled out of the room and away from Harry.


	4. Proposals

Chapter 4 - Proposals

 

The next morning, I woke with a pounding headache and utter mortification at my memories of the previous night. I had actually propositioned Harry Potter. I’d _kissed_ him. I’d kissed him and it had been… nice. No, more than nice. There was a spark there, a definite spark, at least for me, but he’d declined to accept my suggestion, had put off giving me an answer about my idea that we marry each other, and had turned me down for anything more than a heavy snog.

I was not sure I could handle hearing a “no” from him in the cold light of morning, so I guzzled a pepper-up potion, dressed quickly, and floo’d to work, skipping breakfast to avoid running into him.

I grabbed food on the way to my office and then managed to hide there until roughly lunch time when, to my immense dismay, I was cornered by Ron.

“Hullo, ‘Mione,” he said, a cheerful grin on his face as he walked into my office without so much as knocking, his hands thrust into the pockets of his robes.

“Ron,” I said evenly.

I knew he was here about the marriage law and the testing. Why else would he be here? We had drifted apart since our break-up, and whilst we could be polite to each other at social occasions - for we did still have more or less the same larger group of friends - him seeking me out was not the norm, or at least it hadn’t been until this bloody law was passed.

“So you know we’re match, yeah? I mean, I told you all those times that we were meant to be together, if you’d just be more flexible.”

‘Be more flexible’ to Ron meant marry him, quit my job, make babies, and stay at home to support him and his career. I wasn’t opposed to the idea of marriage or babies in a general sense, but quitting my career wasn’t an option, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t ready for children. I did not begrudge Molly Weasley her decision to stay at home with their large family, but it wasn’t what I wanted for myself. I knew I’d end up miserable, and I’d make Ron miserable too.

He must have taken my silence for agreement, as he plowed on with the conversation.

“I was thinking we could just get married quick, in the Ministry office, but mum won’t hear of it. She says we can do a betrothal contract, and it’ll buy us enough time that she can plan a big wedding, invite everyone. The press will want to know, so maybe we could do some interviews or share some photos.”

I wasn’t exactly the sort of girl who’d had her future wedding mentally planned for years, but I did know enough to know that I did not want a big wedding, nor did I want one planned by Molly Weasley, especially if it involved the media.

Ron continued to blather about his mother’s ideas for a wedding and a suggestion that we live at the Burrow until we could buy our own house, and my frustration and anger increased. He clearly had not listened to anything I’d had to say about our break up! He and his mother were planning MY life as if I had no say in the matter, as if I’d just go along to get along! He hadn’t even _asked_ me to marry him today - he’d just wandered in and made assumptions.

“Listen, Ron,” I started to say before he cut me off to talk about how he thought it would be grand if we went to Berlin to the Quidditch World Cup semi-finals as a honeymoon.

He continued speaking, and I wasn’t sure if this was a nervous tick of some kind because he was afraid if he stopped talking I’d shoot him down or if he thought maybe I’d eventually agree with him to get him to shut up and get out of my office.

“And you’ve seen the bonuses they’ll pay for a bigger family, yeah? I know you were worried before about quitting your job, because of money, but you don’t have to worry. I figured it out, and if we have six kids, we should have plenty of money to get by! My family’s always been good at having kids! And you can teach them! You always loved books and school, and you can make sure they’re all prepared to go off to Hogwarts and learn!”

I had to resist the urge to physically cringe at the idea of having six children, SIX, and being stuck at home trying to educate all of them. Yes, I did love school and learning, but that did not mean I was cut out to homeschool, especially not six children.

Finally in frustration and anger, I cast a _silencio_ and then _accio’d_ his wand, leaving him silent and shocked.

“RON! Bloody hell, stop talking!” I pushed out, clutching his wand and mine in my hand.

He motioned to his mouth in irritation, obviously not happy with me. I pressed my fingers into my temple, trying to will away the beginnings of a headache. I really should not have sneaked away this morning without talking to Harry, because now I didn’t have a sober answer from him about a possible marriage.

“Ron, it’s clear you’ve obviously given this a great deal of thought, and you’ve come up with a plan that works for you,” I said slowly. “But it doesn’t work for _me_. I don’t fit into your plan because that’s not who I am. It’s not what I want in life.”

I could see him mouth, “But ‘Mione!” and I held up my hand in a universal sign for ‘stop.’

“Yes, we did match, but I matched with a whole list of wizards, and I’m not going to make a decision today.”

A look of anger flashed across his face, and he glared at me and motioned to his mouth. Against my better judgement, I cancelled the _silencio_.

“So you’re going to marry some STRANGER? What the hell? You’d rather be with someone you don’t even know than ME?”

“Ron, I don’t _want_ to get married, _at all_ , but since I have to, I am going to examine all of my options and choose a husband who wants what I want, and it’s not SIX CHILDREN, and me stuck at home and miserable!” I spat out.

He looked as if I’d slapped him. “My mum stayed home with seven, and she’s not miserable.”

“And if that’s what she wanted, that’s great! I’m not your mum. I’ve never been. That’s just not ME. I’ve said that to you for years, and you still don’t get it.”

“Oh, so now I’m stupid? Too dumb to understand the great Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age?” he said scathingly, knowing how much I hated that epithet.

I’d reached the limit of my frustration, and at that point, I might have been willing to even marry Malfoy over Ron.

“Get out.”

“What?”  
  
“You heard me. Get. Out. I am not going to marry you. Not today. Not next week. Not three months from now.”

“You’ll have to. We’re compatible!”

“I have a whole LIST of wizards with whom I’m compatible, and who don’t expect me to be the second coming of Molly Weasley.”

“Like who?”

I knew I was playing with fire then and I’d only anger him further, but I was too far gone to care.

“Draco Malfoy.”

He barked out a laugh. “Malfoy? Are you fucking kidding me? You expect me to believe you’d marry that tosser over me? Besides, what makes you think he’d want YOU?”

“He’s already asked me,” I said snidely. I knew I was being deliberately cruel, but it seemed like the only way I’d get through to Ron. “He doesn’t care if I keep my job - in fact he’d prefer it. He only wants the minimum two children required by the law, and he has the political connections and financial backing to support my work here, and he offered to pay for generous contributions to my favourite charities. So yes, I have options.”

His face turned red as I ticked off the reasons I claimed I’d be willing to marry Malfoy.

“So that’s it? You’d choose him just because he’s rich? I didn’t think you’d ever sink so low as to prostitute yourself to a Death Eater when you could have a respectable life with a good family,” he said in disgust.

I probably should have been the bigger, better person, but I was hungover, tired, stressed, and frustrated. If my words weren’t getting through to him, maybe action would. I hit him with a stinging hex before levitating him out of my office and slamming the door shut in his face.

 

~oOo~

 

I waited until I was certain Ron had left before opening the door to my office, only to be greeted by an enormous floral arrangement. It was beautiful, but so over the top that it could only be from Malfoy.

“What the hell?” I murmured to myself at the sight of the flowers.

“It’s for you!” the department secretary said with a knowing smile.

I plucked the card from the vase and sighed. Yep, Malfoy. I appreciated his approach much more than Ron’s though. At least Malfoy was giving me space. The Hermione Granger of just a few years ago would be horrified at the thought that Malfoy was possibly a better candidate for my husband than Ron Weasley.

“Well?” she asked hopefully. For some, the marriage law was manna from Gossip Heaven. I’d lost count of the number of excited conversations I’d overheard between various witches in the Ministry, speculating about who was making offers for who and who would be the next to match or marry.

“Anything I need to know?” I asked, ignoring her question.

She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Well, Mary Alice in contracts heard that Harry Potter was spotted in the Office of Vital Records and Registration! He met with someone and left with a stack of parchment, so probably a betrothal contract! Do you know who he’s marrying?” she asked, well aware of my friendship with Harry.

Her question sent a spike of pain through my chest. Did I know who he was marrying? Because I’d been too afraid to speak with Harry this morning, no, I did not know. If Ron had already been by to see me, chances were Ginny, Cho, or someone else had come by to see Harry. I suddenly regretted leaving this morning before facing him. Maybe if I had, he and I would be filling out a betrothal contract together today. I felt a tightening in my throat that always preceded tears welling up in my eyes, and I tried to breathe through it and force myself to relax.

“Do I have any mail?” I asked.

She handed me a stack of envelopes and parchment and frowned at my unwillingness to gossip as I retreated to my office without an answer. Maybe I should have gone to see Harry then, but I didn’t want to make a fool of myself any more than I already had the night before. If Harry was engaged, he would tell me in his own time, I told myself. It was a coward’s response to the situation, but I didn’t care.

My mail included a note from the Ministry that Roger Davies had filed a betrothal contract with another witch and was no longer available for my consideration, an invitation to tea from the older wizard in the Wizengamot who I’d already ruled out because of our age difference, three unsolicited proposals from wizards whose names I didn’t even recognise, and a letter from Molly Weasley, inviting me to Sunday dinner to “discuss your wedding with Ron.” It was the first time I’d been invited to Sunday dinner since we’d broken up.

I dumped all of the letters in the rubbish bin and lit the whole thing on fire with my wand before warding my office to prevent another intrusion.

 _If Harry is engaged, you are going to be nice about it. You are not going to make an arse of yourself again,_ I told myself before I forced my attention back to my work.

I’d lost track of time when I was disrupted by the sensation of someone taking down my wards. A few minutes later, my door opened and Harry stood in the doorway.

“Are these supposed to keep someone out? Because if so, we need to talk about your warding,” he said dryly. “This is shite work. You’ve grown sloppy since the war ended.”

“It wasn’t meant to kill anyone, just to give me a few hours of peace,” I snapped back.

Harry let himself in and closed the door behind him. He stood in front of my desk and stared at me for a long time, long enough that I was uncomfortable and not sure what to say.

“You left this morning without saying anything to me,” he finally said.

I felt my face flush in response. “I’m… I didn’t…” my voice trailed off.

“Ginny came to see me today,” he said.

The sudden change in conversation nearly gave me whiplash. I looked up at him in surprise and then motioned to a chair in front of my desk. I _really_ did not want to hear that he was engaged to his ex-girlfriend, but I wasn’t about to turn him away either. He sat down and shook his head with disgust.

“What did she say?” I asked.

“I’ll spare you the details, but it was mostly a reiteration of what she’s said before: we’re a match, she wants us to marry, and she’s willing to move into Grimmauld Place after you move out, as long as I’m willing to buy her a manor house in the country after she has a baby.”

I raised my eyebrows at that. I’d known of course that if I married anyone other than Harry, I’d surely have to move out, but I couldn’t help but feel prickly over the idea of Ginny Weasley plotting to kick me out of my own home.

“What did you tell her?”

Harry crossed one of his legs at the knee and leaned back, observing me for a long enough moment that I felt uncomfortable. 

“Stop it,” I said.

“Stop what?”

“You’re giving me your Auror Stare, and it makes me uncomfortable.”

He snorted. “It seems to work on the bad guys. Makes them more likely to tell all, when under the powerful gaze of the Chosen One, Defeater of Voldemort.”

I had to stifle a bit of a snort at that, and I opted to look away from him.

“As for what I told Ginevra Weasley, the problem with that is that a certain witch who happens to be my roommate ran out on me this morning before we could talk about our conversation the night before. So when I turned Ginny down, and she asked who I was planning to marry if not her, I didn’t have an answer,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Oh.”

“Which was not exactly discouraging to her. You see, she was adamant that you were going to marry Ron.”

“She was?”

“Yeah. She brought that up as part of her argument for why we should be together: if you married Ron and I married her, we’d all be family and would still see each other all the time.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Ron came by earlier. I had to hex him to get him to leave.”

Harry laughed at that. “God, I wish I’d seen that.”

“I’ll create a pensieve memory for you,” I said dryly.

“You owe me a conversation, Hermione Granger.”

He was looking at me with an intensity I wasn’t sure I’d seen before, and I wanted to bury my face in my hands or crawl under the desk to escape his gaze.

“I know.”

“And it’s close enough to quitting time that I’m declaring you done for the day.”

“You can’t just do that!” I protested.

“Yeah, I can. You told me yourself that you’ve just been cleaning up other people’s messes with all the drama around the marriage law, so there’s no point in arguing with me. I’m not going anywhere until we talk. If you don’t want to talk we can just sit here all night. But I’d rather not have to do that - I’m a bit hungry.”

I sighed. If he was going to turn me down, I didn’t want to drag this out and make it more painful than necessary. Besides, if Harry wasn’t an option for me, then I supposed I’d have to at least talk to Malfoy and perhaps get in contact with a few of the other wizards on my list. Maybe one of them would be open to artificial insemination and would let me live in a separate residence somewhere…

“Harry, if you’re here to tell me that you’ve picked someone else, please don’t drag it out. I know it’s a far from ideal situation, and maybe I was crazy to even suggest it.”

I couldn’t even look him in the eye. So much for Gryffindor bravery.

“Why would you think it’s crazy?”

“Because it’s us. We’re best friends. We’ve always been best friends. There’s never been anything more. I mean, I’ve lived with you for years, and we’ve never even so much as kissed on the lips until last night.”

I finally looked at him, in time to see him narrow his eyes at me.

“It was one hell of a kiss,” he said, and I was certain my face was flaming red at that point.

“It wouldn’t have happened were it not for this stupid, awful law.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it did clear up one thing for me.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“That maybe we could be good together,” he said solemnly.

I swallowed hard. “Really?” I whispered.

“Look, I knew Ron liked you, really liked you, early on, and he was so insecure, so threatened by everything. And here I was, this kid with a giant awful prophecy hanging over him and a madman hunting him, nearly getting you both killed each year. It’s not like I had anything to offer anyone as a boyfriend.”

I frowned. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is. Let’s not sugar-coat it. By the time the war was over and done and that noseless wanker was dead, Ron had made it clear you were the witch for him. I just...I couldn’t take that from him. He was so threatened by our friendship. I mean even the horcrux…” his voice trailed off, and I remembered what Harry had told me before, about how the locket horcrux had shown Ron an image of Harry and me in a passionate embrace.

I tried to focus less on the memory and more on his words. “Are you… are you saying that had Ron not been interested in me, you would have been?”

The very idea seemed laughable, but Harry wasn’t laughing.

“You were there for me when no one else was. You never turned your back on me. Never gave up on me. I don’t know what could have been with us. Maybe, if Ron had been interested in someone else, if you’d not had a crush on him, maybe we could have been together, as a couple when we were younger. I don’t know.”

He took a deep breath, and I admired his maturity and his bravery in saying these words to me not knowing how I’d respond.

“What I do know,” he continued, “Is that if I have to marry, I’d rather marry my best friend than my ex-girlfriend or some witch I don’t know.”

So that was it. Harry was willing to marry me. He wasn’t in love with me, and I was clearly the best option out of a list of lousy options, but with the clock ticking and time running out, he would pick me. Given the circumstances, I supposed I could live with that. And he was right - it had been one hell of a kiss.

“You’re saying you want to marry me,” I clarified.

“Maybe it’s crazy, but then again, this whole fucking situation is crazy. You’re the most sane part about the whole bloody thing.”

“I’m… I’m bookish. And I spend too much time at my job,” I said softly. “I probably couldn’t cast a beauty charm to save my life, and my hair has a life of its own.”

He tried - and failed - to suppress a laugh at the comment about my hair.

“I don’t have a lot of experience with kids, and I really don’t want more than two. Two seems like a lot, considering that I was an only child. And I... I don’t know the first thing about being anyone’s mother. I mean, what if I get caught up browsing in a bookstore and lose my child when I don’t notice it wandering off?” I confessed.

“Are you trying to talk me out of this now?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at me. He tried to look stern, but I could see a hint of amusement in his green eyes.

“No! No, I just think you should really know what you’re getting yourself into here. I mean, I’m a muggleborn, and you know that means I have to work twice as hard to get anywhere in the Ministry because so many people are still discriminatory bigots, and I’m utterly useless to you in terms of advancing your own career because I don’t have relatives with seats on the Wizengamot or ancient vaults filled with Galleons. And I’m mouthy. I told Albert Runcorn to go suck a quaffle earlier this week when he said something disparaging about wizards with creature heritage,” I confessed.

Harry burst out laughing. “Oh my god, you did not!”

“I did, and I regret nothing.”

He laughed harder and then wiped at his eyes. “Other than the ‘suck a quaffle’ bit, which I am just now hearing, everything else you said, I already know. Because I know YOU. I know you inside and out, better than anyone else. You’re bossy and opinionated and hardworking and fiercely loyal and you don’t waste time or money on pointless frippery. You never go to bed without having a stack of books at your bedside in case you can’t sleep, and you take your tea with milk and no sugar, and at some point you’ll probably get another cat or kneazle and my robes will be covered in fur all the time, and I honestly don’t really care.”

His gaze met mine as he spoke. “Maybe we could have been something before, if Ron and Ginny hadn’t been around. I don’t know. I thought you were content with friendship, so I never pushed, I never tried to explore anything more. But if I must marry, then I will go into it knowing exactly what I’m getting into, and I will do it with you.”

He took a deep breath.

“Will you marry me?”


	5. An Engagement and a Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the Frumpologist for providing some advice and input on this chapter. Thank you for continuing to read, follow/favorite, and share your thoughts with me. As always, I welcome your feedback. 
> 
> Cheers,  
> Elle

Chapter 5 - An Engagement and a Warning

 

I said yes, of course. We didn’t rush to passionately embrace or to snog on top of my desk or anything of that sort. Maybe we should have. Maybe it would have made everything easier if we had. After what had happened the night before though, I was cautious in the stone-cold sober light of day. But when I said yes, a slow smile spread across his face, and I was reminded that my best friend, my _fiancé_ , was a handsome wizard.

He reached into his robes and brought out a stack of parchments, and I was beyond relieved to know that he had indeed visited the Office of Vital Records and Registration, and he had indeed picked up a standard betrothal contract, and it was for _me_.

We drafted it together in my office, filling in the information and finding ourselves in accord on everything: I was already living with Harry, so there was no need to debate where we would live, the law dictated two children, so we agreed in the contract that we would have two, with decisions about additional children to be made together in the future. I had no dowry, no trust vaults to bring to the marriage, just my own small account at Gringotts. Harry would add me to the Potter and Black vaults he’d inherited, and together we crossed out frankly sexist language about the allowance the wife was to be allotted from her husband, and we specified that I was welcome to continue my job and that decisions about raising children would be made together.

I could not imagine negotiating something like this with a stranger or with someone like Malfoy, who would probably show up armed to the teeth with barristers.

Betrothal contracts were supposed to be part contractual agreement between two parties and part premarital counseling, as couples had to work together to discuss and agree on what they wanted their married life to look like. Harry and I managed to fill out the papers in what might have been record time.

I watched in silence as he signed his name before passing the quill to me.

“Here you go. Last chance to back out,” he teased.

“Betrothal contacts can be undone, and they can be challenged by other parties. You’re not completely stuck with me yet.”

“Just sign it so we can leave. I’m starving, and I owe you an engagement ring.”

I looked at him in surprise. “You don’t need to get me a ring. I mean, they’re not all that common in the magical world, and anyway, it’s not like this is…”

I almost said, “it’s not like this is _real_ ,” before stopping myself. The marriage might have an unconventional start to it, but for all intents and purposes, it would be a real marriage, officially consummated, for the purpose of having children.

“There is jewelry in the family vault, things that were passed down generations. I’d like to see if there’s a ring there that would suit you,” he offered. “My mum had a ring. Some families hold more to the whole ring tradition than others. It might be nice to have them, for both of us. If we can’t find something, I can have one made. I’d like you to have a choice though since you’re the one who will wear it.”

I blinked back tears at such a sudden and unexpectedly sweet gesture. “I’d like that.”

“Good. We’ll go tomorrow. Now sign the damn thing so we can eat. Indian food okay with you?”

I signed.

 

~oOo~

 

We had dinner that night in muggle London, and over chicken tikka masala and curry, we talked through our plans. If we made an announcement about our engagement, it would likely put a halt to the proposals and visits from prospective spouses, which would be a huge plus. However, it was also likely to cause a firestorm of controversy - Rita Skeeter would be beside herself and the press coverage would be ridiculous. The Weasleys would be furious with us, and Malfoy had seemed determined enough to marry me that I thought he might react poorly as well.

Betrothal contracts weren’t unbreakable and could be undone for a number of reasons. Even a marital binding could be broken prior to consummation. I didn’t necessarily think the Weasleys had enough clout to try to convince the Ministry to break our contract and marry us off to others, but the Malfoy family certainly did. Lucius Malfoy would probably be thrilled to see me married off to Harry and away from his precious pureblood heir, but Draco seemed convinced his father was resigned to the idea of a generation of half-blood Malfoys, and I didn’t want to take any chances.

Harry and I wanted to avoid a media spectacle or a lot of drama and announcing our engagement straight away would certainly result in unwanted attention. We didn’t want a big production of a wedding either. I had no family in the magical world and only distant relatives in the muggle world with whom I’d long ago lost contact. Harry occasionally exchanged a letter with his cousin Dudley, but he hadn’t seen his aunt or uncle in years. He had no surviving relatives in the magical world that we knew of. Just his godson, Teddy Lupin, and by extension Teddy’s grandmother, Andromeda Tonks.

I liked the idea of a small ceremony in a garden somewhere with just a handful of friends. It was summer, after all, and I could picture myself in a simple white dress, something that could be worn in the magical and muggle worlds, that was nicer than my work attire but wasn’t some long, sparkly, over the top gown. Harry was amenable to that but let me know that he’d be fine with us just having a quick ceremony by a Ministry official from the Office of Vital Records and Registration. Many of the reluctantly paired couples were skipping more formal weddings in favor of ceremonies at the Ministry. The word among some of our colleagues was that if their rushed marriages turned out alright, they’d host some sort of anniversary celebration later on.

We both agreed that we’d keep the engagement and the wedding a secret and would simply send out an announcement after it was all said and done. The problem was that to keep it a secret - and avoid having someone contest our contract if it wasn’t filed before the grace period ended - we’d have to file the contract at the last minute and wed 24 hours later, down to the wire before the grace period ended. It was a daunting thought, that in two weeks I’d be Harry’s _wife_. It was somehow both too far away and approaching far too quickly.

I went to sleep that night in my own bedroom at Grimmauld Place. Oddly enough out of all the things we’d discussed that day, sharing a bed or a bedroom wasn’t among them. We had both acknowledged the awfulness of forced marriage and the reality that this would not be happening but for that accursed law, so I saw no reason to rush into moving my belongings.

It was awkward walking off to my own bedroom when we came home and Harry said, “So, um, I’m kind of tired,” and then wandered upstairs by himself, but probably less awkward than sharing a bed with him would have been at that point. Sure, we’d shared a kiss - and a damned good one at that - but I think neither one of us wanted to jinx our situation. Plus there was that strange jolt we’d experienced. I’d been busy enough with the contract and with work that I’d not even had a chance to research that. I definitely wanted to know what it was before I let Harry put his mouth anywhere near my breasts or my heart again.

The next morning before work, Harry took me to Gringotts. The goblins barely tolerated either of us, given that whole unfortunate dragon incident during the war. I half-expected the cart to dump us somewhere in the bowels of the bank as punishment, but we arrived safely at the Potter family vault. It was enormous, possibly even bigger than Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault, and filled with gold, antique furnishings, art, and other treasures.

“This is amazing,” I said, rather awed by the size and scope of the vault. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back and amend our betrothal contract?”

Harry, who was already fumbling about looking for something, turned to look at me. “What? Why? Does this scare you off?”

“It’s impressive. You really want me to have access to all of this?”

He looked around in confusion at my hesitation. “Yeah, I mean, you’re going to be my wife. Why wouldn’t I want you to have access to this?”

His lips turn up in a cheeky grin then. “Try not to spend it all on books, okay?”

“Prat.”

I picked up a Galleon and flicked it at him in response, but being the skilled seeker he was, he caught the damn thing and winked at me instead.

I left him to his own devices and checked out some of the furniture and paintings in the back.

He startled me when he came up behind me, a box in his hands.

“I found it!”

“What?”

“The rings. Here.”

He handed me the box and sat down in what looked like a Louis XVI chair. I had a feeling it was an original. The polished rosewood box opened easily and nestled in the bed of velvet were a veritable treasure chest of rings. Some were ornate, some were simple. Some had enormous gemstones, and others were dainty and delicate. All were imbued with magic, and most of them left my fingertips with a slight buzzing or pulsing feeling as their magic reached out to mine.

I looked up in wonder at Harry. “They’re magical, these rings.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure about the history of all of them, but there’s probably a book in here somewhere, a Grimoire maybe?”

“Do you… which one do you want me to take?” I asked.

“You pick. I’d say go for whatever you like best but given that there’s some sort of magic woven into them, I’d say pick whichever one responds best to you,” he said with a shrug. “We can always ask the goblins to examine it and detect what spells have been placed on it.”

I touched each ring again, paying closer attention to how they felt. I tried on just one and it magically adjusted to fit my finger. I knew as soon as I put it on that it was perfect. It was one of the more modest rings, with flowers carved into the gold band, supporting a large blood-red stone, either a ruby or a garnet. It was big enough to be extravagant by my standards but was not so flashy that it would immediately draw attention or easily get caught on my robes.

“Is that the one?” Harry asked.

I looked up at him with a smile. “Yes, this is it.”

He took my hand, examining the ring more closely. “Beautiful. Very Gryffindor with the red and gold.”

“It looks very old.”

“It probably is.”

We combed through the vault, and Harry was delighted to find a set of gold wedding bands that weren’t an exact match for my ring but would look nice with it. I didn’t want to wear the ring on my finger and give away our situation, so we also picked out a necklace - a moonstone pendant on a delicate gold chain - and I looped the ring onto the chain before putting it on and tucking it safely beneath my clothes.

The goblins weren’t particularly happy to meet with us, but reaching out to Bill Weasley, Gringotts resident curse breaker, to examine the rings wasn’t an option, given his relation to our erstwhile exes. We learned in short order that the flowers carved into the gold of my engagement band were gladiolus, representing strength of character, faithfulness, honor, and remembrance, and corresponded with charms for protection and fidelity. It seemed like a fitting choice, and I was touched that Harry wanted me to have such a precious piece of heirloom jewelry.

 

~oOo~

 

The next week passed in varying degrees of frustration. Harry and I continued to pretend at home that everything was the way it had always been between us, but there was a layer of awkwardness beneath every interaction, as we both realised that we’d soon be married and sharing a bed. Each night I told myself that I would bring up the subject of physical intimacy, but each night one of us had to work late or one of us went to bed early, or I just plain chickened out. So much for Gryffindor bravery.

Then again, he wasn’t exactly rushing to gather me in his arms and snog me senseless either, and that didn’t exactly inspire a whole lot of confidence in me.

We continued to both be beset by proposals - both via owl and in person - from witches and wizards who’d matched with us to some degree. Malfoy sent another large floral arrangement, which I delivered to St. Mungo’s along with the first. Someone at the hospital must have tipped him off about the flowers, or perhaps it was a coincidence, but either way, he then made a rather large donation in my name to the paediatric wing at St. Mungo’s. Rather than make the gift as a giant public gesture, he’d done so discreetly, and the notification of the gift came from the hospital itself. It was honestly one of the nicest gestures anyone had ever made for me, and I was touched by it, if not left feeling a bit off kilter because it came from Malfoy of all people.

I also felt vaguely guilty for leading him on, as I doubted Malfoy would have made such a gift had he not been trying to convince me to marry him. When I mentioned it to Harry, he attempted to assuage my guilt by pointing out that Malfoy apparently had money to burn and it was the least his family could do after everything that happened during the war.

In an attempt to discourage Malfoy and others, we ended up locking down our floo to avoid unsolicited guests. Neither of us wanted Ron or Ginny to show up in our home unannounced. For the most part we ignored the owls when we could.

Ginny attempted several times to visit Harry at Grimmauld Place, and according to Harry, he had to have her escorted out of the Auror office. It was still less obnoxious though than Ron leaking to the press that he’d proposed to me and that his mother was planning our wedding, conveniently leaving out, of course, that I’d turned him down. The story was one of Skeeter’s pieces, a smear-fest filled with innuendo and commentary that bordered on just this side of libelous.

Skeeter’s story about Ron and me and our non-existent wedding was one of many that week. Harry and I were both approached with obnoxious inquiries from the press about who we planned to marry. We’d hoped that keeping our engagement quiet would reduce the amount of interest in our lives, but the lack of a betrothal contract on file for either of us was now problematic, as Rita Skeeter and others had started asking uncomfortable questions.

I’d reached a point where leaving the safety of Grimmauld Place made me both anxious and angry, and I’d come to dread once enjoyable parts of my day like the long walk from the Ministry floos to my office or a regular jaunt from the Ministry to a nearby cafe for tea.

I managed to avoid most of my suitors until the end of the week, when Malfoy cornered me as I was preparing to leave work and head home.

“Granger!”

I turned when I heard my name and then immediately turned away when I saw Draco Malfoy rushing toward me.

“Go away, Malfoy!” I said as I quickened my pace.

He was faster than I anticipated, and he caught me before I could make my way into the main corridor of the Ministry. He curled his fingers around my upper arm, and before I knew it, he had me cornered between a stone column and the wall.

“Let go of me!” I hissed.

“Why won’t you reply to my owls?” he demanded.

“I don’t owe you anything,” I said, shoving at him. He was far too close, and it made me distinctly uncomfortable.

“You have to marry. We’re a match. I’ve made you an honest offer - and you aren’t likely to have a better one out there, Granger.”

“You don’t want to marry me. We’ve never gotten along, and I can’t imagine that changing. We have nothing in common, and I’d be a terrible society wife because I couldn’t care less about china patterns and brunch menus and who is wearing last year’s dress robes at some snobby event somewhere.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about any of that. You’re magically powerful, and you’re brilliant.”

I looked up at him and was surprised to see that he appeared sincere. I heaved a sigh.

“Look, Malfoy, you can’t possibly think us being married is a good idea. Your father would probably murder me in my sleep,” I said, trying to reason with him.

He flinched at that, and his jaw hardened. “My father has accepted the reality of this situation, and he has no desire to go back to Azkaban for interfering with the Ministry’s matches. You’ll find that he’s quite amenable to ensuring that I have a match that most favours the conception of a magical child.”

I stared at him, incredulous at the very idea that Lucius Malfoy would tolerate a mudblood sullying his pureblood lineage.

“Have dinner with me. Let me show you what our lives could be like together, Granger,” he said in a softer voice.

Had Harry not been an option in my life, I would have been sorely tempted to say yes. While I didn’t appreciate him cornering me like this, Malfoy’s methods of courtship had been relatively benign and flattering, all things considered. He wasn’t rudely intrusive the way Ron was, and even though I didn’t follow society gossip, I knew enough to know that Draco Malfoy was considered a good catch by just about everyone, and the reality was that I did have to marry _someone_.

“I can’t. I won’t,” I said firmly.

“Why not?” he asked before narrowing his eyes at me. “You don’t have a betrothal contract on file - I checked today. After next week, you’re free, and I WILL have an offer on file at the Ministry waiting for you. I have it on the highest authority that given the strength of our match, it will be approved, and you _will_ be my wife, but I’d prefer you come to me of your own free will.”

It scared me then, the very notion that he’d already taken such steps to possess me, like I was just another desirable object the Malfoy family could acquire. Harry and I had made a pact to keep our upcoming marriage a secret, but I needed to get Malfoy off my back.

“I’m already engaged,” I pushed out breathlessly before I could give the disclosure proper consideration.

He was silent for a moment, a surprised look on his face.

“To whom?”

“I...I can’t say.”

He smirked. “I find that hard to believe. If you were engaged, there would be a contract on file.”

“We haven’t filed it yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because we value our privacy.”

He arched an eyebrow at me, as if he didn’t believe me. He probably didn’t.

“You have an objectionable match then,” he said slowly.

“What?”

“Assuming this betrothal does actually exist, the only reason to not file in advance is to avoid the possibility of someone contesting it. So why the secrecy? Are you two barely compatible with each other then? Or are you trying to take another muggleborn off the market? Either one of those could result in the Ministry voiding your contract.”

I swallowed hard, for the idea of someone intervening and trying to stop our marriage was precisely my fear. I was equally well-matched to Harry and to Malfoy, and Ron was a very close third. Had our match barely made the Ministry’s cut, the Ministry intervening would have been a real possibility.

He looked me up and down in a way that was vaguely cringe-worthy.

“Back off, Malfoy. I won’t hesitate to hex you,” I said in a low voice, palming my wand.

He stepped back a fraction, just enough that I felt I could breathe more easily.

“Are you _afraid_ of me?” he asked, quirking a pale blond eyebrow at me, a hint of a smirk on his face.

“You wish,” I spit back, but the truth was that it unnerved me how easily he’d grabbed me and backed me into a corner. Harry was right that I’d become rather lax in this period of post-war peace. Malfoy wasn’t the sniveling little boy he’d once been - he towered over me now, and if I somehow lost my wand, I was no match for him in any kind of a physical fight.

He narrowed his eyes at me then. “Listen Granger, my request to marry you is perfectly legitimate. If you really do have a fiancé somewhere waiting in the wings, don’t waste your time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You are a more valuable witch than you seem to realise.”

“Yeah, yeah, muggleborn, not inbred and related to everyone else. I get it,” I mumbled, still clutching the handle of my wand, but keeping it pointed at the floor.

“Well, that, and the whole war hero, best friend of the Saviour of the Wizarding World thing. You matched to Cassius Warrington yesterday,” he said.

“Who?”

“Slytherin, graduated early in our education. He’s a Death Eater.”

I snorted. “Yeah, and so were you. What’s your point?” I asked, ignoring his glare at my mention of his former servitude.

Malfoy was hardly the only ex-Death Eater walking free. Truthfully more of them probably should have gone to prison, and I still did not agree with how the powers that be had managed the trials and the aftermath of the war.

“I was a Death Eater, and not by choice. Cassius was there willingly. He didn’t get a single pureblood witch on his list of matches. He was at The Twisted Wand last night, half-pissed, talking about you.”

I frowned. The Twisted Wand was a less than reputable bar in Knockturn Alley. I had never been there but knew of it only because Harry had mentioned it before. The Aurors were apparently called there with some regularity to break up fights. It’s possible I had received an owl last night from the Ministry about an additional match, but I’d stopped opening envelopes from the Office of Vital Records and Registration.

“What was he saying?” I asked.

A hard look came over Malfoy’s face. “That if he had to get stuck with a mudblood, it might as well be one he’d enjoy beating.”

I felt the colour drain from my face.

“Beating?”

“Mmm. He was rather colourful - and indiscreet - in his drunken ranting about how he planned to… how did he phrase it? Ah yes, ‘beat her good and shove my cock down her filthy muggle throat until she begs for mercy.’”

He paused for a moment to let me take in his words.

“There’s more, but it generally included plans to force you out of your job, keep you locked in Warrington Keep, beat you regularly, snap your wand, and rape you into submission, because, and I quote, ‘that’s all a mudblood bitch is good for.’”

I felt bile rise in my throat, and blood rushing in my ears as my body viscerally reacted to his horrible words. I felt utterly disgusted, both at what Malfoy was telling me and at myself. I’d been so angry over this law, so upset about how I felt it violated individual autonomy and freedom that it hadn’t really even sunk in for me that some witches - and possibly wizards - would end up in abusive marriages.

“These aren’t just the words of a drunken wizard,” Malfoy continued. “He’ll do it. I have no doubt. I know he was set free due to lack of evidence, but he’s a nasty piece of shite. He’s boasted of raping muggle women during the war.”

I swallowed hard, my free hand clenching my robes.

“So, if you really do have a fiancé, then marry him. File the betrothal contract and marry him now because no one deserves to end up with that bastard.”

“If you have evidence of a crime, if you know he’s violent, why haven’t you reported him?” I managed to push out, hating how shaky my voice sounded.

“I did, as part of my own confessions to the Aurors. I gave them everything I had, on everyone. Deals were made - he turned on some of the older Death Eaters, and he bargained his way to freedom. As for last night, you and I both know the Ministry isn’t going to arrest someone for drunken ramblings. As far as they’re concerned, he hasn’t committed a crime _yet_.”

I stared at him for a moment and tried to bring my own emotions under control.

“Why are you telling me this?” I finally asked.

“Because regardless of what happened in our past, I’m not a fucking monster, Granger. I may not be your first choice, but I’d treat you a far sight better than Warrington would, and I’d marry you to make sure you don’t end up with him. He said he’d already filed a request for you.”

“Did he?” I whispered. I’d not bothered to look at any of the official requests that had been submitted for my hand in matrimony. I hadn’t wanted to know, but now that seemed utterly naive and foolish.

“He did. But I have it on good authority that I’m a closer match to you than he is, so you’re safe there. I don’t know who your mysterious fiancé is, but unless you match with more than a 98% confidence level - which is where you and I fall - then you need to marry him before the end of the month.”

“Hermione?”

I drew in a sharp intake of breath at the sound of Harry’s voice.

He had his “stern Auror” face on as he walked quickly toward us, and I noticed that Malfoy leaned back from me as Harry approached.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy. What’s going on here?” Harry asked, looking at me with concern.

“Just a friendly conversation,” Malfoy said smoothly, although it was clear from the look on Harry’s face that he didn’t see anything friendly about our body language.

“What are you still doing here Harry?” I asked, taking advantage of his presence to slide past Malfoy and move away from the literal corner I’d been backed into.

“Looking for you.”

He glanced over at Malfoy, and I noticed Draco look at Harry and then at me before his pale eyebrows rose.

“Think about what I said Granger,” he reminded me. “Potter. I’d say I’d it’s good to see you, but we both know that would be a lie.”

Malfoy turned on his heel and walked off, leaving me alone in the hall with Harry.

“What was all of that?” he asked, a look of concern on his face.

“Come on, let’s go home, and I’ll tell you.”


	6. Making Plan

Chapter 6 - Making Plans

Harry was absolutely livid when I told him what Warrington had supposedly said, and I had to cast a _petrificus totalis_ on him to keep him from storming out to find and curse him. I wouldn’t have minded overmuch if he’d done so, for it sounded like Warrington surely deserved it, but I also couldn’t have my fiancé end up in Azkaban, leaving me stuck with Malfoy, Ron, or God forbid anyone else. That, and I assumed Harry would forgive me for it once he calmed down.

The conversation with Malfoy had shaken me more than I wanted to admit, and I was deeply ashamed of how self-centered I’d been. Throughout this whole awful marriage law ordeal, I’d been so selfish. I’d been so focused on my own fear and my anger with the Ministry over how this law violated my bodily autonomy, violated my right to control my own life that I really hadn’t given much thought to the wider, horrific picture: for a small subset of people, this law would result in abuse at the hands of spouses who did not want them. I’d been so busy dodging unwanted proposals from wizards who wanted to use my notoriety for their own purposes that it never occurred to me that someone might want to actually _hurt_ me.

Harry was right: I’d become lax regarding my own safety.

Whilst Harry was petrified, I paced the length of the parlour at Grimmauld Place, ranting about, well, everything. About how he was simply not allowed to be stupid and reckless and end up in Azkaban for going after a drunk Death Eater spewing filth about me. About how we both needed to be smart. About how _someone_ was going to end up with Warrington, and if it was a muggleborn, she was surely going to be in danger. About how utterly WRONG it was of the Ministry to force people together and force them to stay together when surely some of them would end up abused. About how I was a horrible person for not doing something about it, for not using my name, using Harry’s name to try to protect these witches - and it surely would be primarily witches who ended up victimised.

How could I have been so short-sighted? How could I have failed to think about what could happen to those less fortunate than Harry and me? Once it was clear that there would be no quick repeal of this law, why hadn’t I gone to Kingsley and demanded protection and a way out for abused spouses? I’d argued about the unfairness of the law, but I had selfishly been thinking only of myself as I tried to convince Harry to leave Britain with me. Why hadn’t I gone to the press and riled up the public about the fate of those harmed by these forced marriages? We could do something, couldn’t we? Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe we could get the Wizengamot to amend the law. God, what was _wrong_ with me that I hadn’t thought through all of this?

I’d quit watching Harry by then, so wrapped up in my own self-flagellation. By the time I noticed he’d managed to free himself from my _petrificus_ spell, he’d gotten up from the sofa and pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around me.

I burst into tears then as I apologised for petrifying him, and he made soothing noises as he rubbed little circles on my back with his hand.

“We need to stop stalling and move forward with this, you know, the whole wedding thing,” he said into my hair as I sniffled against his chest.

I pulled back from his embrace and wiped at my eyes.

“What?”

“You’re absolutely right that we need to do something and to give people a way out if they end up in an abusive situation,” he said firmly, “But it has to wait until we’re married.”

I opened my mouth to object, but he held up a hand, cutting me off.

“I know you want to protect everyone, but I need to protect YOU first,” he said seriously, his hands resting on my shoulders as he spoke. “I know neither one of us wants to rush into marriage, but the sooner we’re married and sick fuckers like Warrington can’t get their hands on you, the better we’ll both feel. Then we can try to amend this rubbish law.”

He was right. I knew he was right, but it also felt so final. This whole situation was so surreal, and I was still trying to wrap my mind around the upheaval in our lives. Filing the betrothal and making arrangements for the marital binding would make it all real.

I looked up at Harry. He’d squared his jaw and was eyeing me in that stern way he used when he was adamant he wasn’t about to budge.

“We talked about waiting until the last minute,” I reminded him.

“That was before I knew about Warrington. We’re closing in on the deadline anyway. A week isn’t going to make that much of a difference.”

“Just filling the betrothal contract is going to cause drama.”

“I don’t care. I’ll deal with it if it means it keeps you safe. Let’s file it and get married straight away. Besides, I’m bloody sick and tired of dealing with owls from desperate witches, and maybe it will get Ron and Ginny off our backs.”

“It never even occurred to me to pull a list from the Office of Vital Records and Registration to see if anyone had petitioned for me,” I admitted, ashamed at how utterly naive and stupid I’d been.

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Me neither. I didn’t really want to know, but we should probably check. How quickly can you pull a wedding together?”

 

~oOo~

 

My trip to the Office of Vital Records and Registration the next day was less than stellar. The staff were swamped with wizards and witches still being tested, others inquiring about updated match lists, and still others requesting petition lists or filing petitions or betrothal contracts. The witch who handed me my petition list looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else. I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for her. It wasn’t the staff’s fault, after all, that this Merlin-be-damned law had been enacted, but they were surely bearing the brunt of the public’s anger over it.

I retreated to a quiet corner of the Ministry’s research library where I finally unrolled the scroll. Not surprisingly Draco Malfoy’s name was at the top. He’d also been correct about Warrington: our former classmate-turned-Death Eater had indeed filed a petition for me, but mercifully our magical compatibility wasn’t nearly as high as mine was with Harry, Malfoy, or Ron. A handful of other people had filed petitions for me, but the one name I expected to see on the list was not there: Ronald Weasley. I breathed a sigh of relief at that. I hadn’t heard from Ron in a few days, and hopefully that plus the lack of a petition for me meant Ron had given up on trying to convince me to marry him.

That matter complete, I set aside the list in order to begin my research. I’d holed up in the library for multiple reasons. Despite the library being my home away from home at Hogwarts, for whatever reason people usually failed to look for me in the Ministry library, and it was therefore a great place to hide if I could get away from the ever-present piles of work on my desk. I figured I could cram in a few hours of research before anyone found me tucked safely away in a mostly dark corner behind stacks of utterly dull treatises on tax law.

I’d acquiesced to Harry’s demand that we move up our wedding, but I was not going to let the issue of spousal abuse drop. I was determined to learn everything I could about magical Britain’s laws on marriage, divorce, separation, and penalties for domestic violence. I took copious notes whilst simultaneously silently debating strategic options Harry and I could take to amend the law. I’d been unable to get the damned law overturned, but we needed to amend it to protect the most vulnerable in these required marriages. I was hopeful that this sort of amendment would open the door to others. Maybe in time I could get it amended enough to take most of the teeth out of the law. I realised then as I sat there in the library that perhaps I’d gone about this all the wrong way, taking the direct approach and trying to get rid of it altogether when Slytherin cunning might have suited me better. I had a sneaking suspicion Malfoy would have approved of my revelation.

I had to pace myself on my research because the marriage law wasn’t the only reason I’d ventured into the library. I knew I’d have to come back, probably multiple times, to make my way through the rest of the statutes and case precedent on file, but I’d made good progress and had a list of possible strategies and allies to share with Harry.

Harry was the reason for my next bit of research. Something had caused a jolt, a shock of some kind when we had snogged on the sofa, and I was determined to figure out what it was. In my free time, I’d combed through the remnants of the Black library at Grimmauld Place but had not found anything, and I’d been too swamped with work to devote any time to visiting the Ministry’s library until now.

I hoped I’d be able to find an answer rather quickly, as I knew the library inside and out, but several hours later, I was still no closer to figuring it out. Not only that, but several of the books I was certain I needed based on the card catalogue were missing or had been checked out, and the reference librarian refused to tell me who had them. I finally gave up the hunt and returned to my office, feeling rather guilty that I’d squandered more than half the day in the library.

I was still irritated when Harry dropped by my office later that afternoon with bad news: due to the flood of couples rushing to marry before the grace period ended, as well as the spellwork involved with cross-checking ceremonies against objections filed against betrothal agreements, there was not a free officiant to be had, at least not for a wedding outside the walls of the Ministry. We would need to complete the binding in one of many designated ritual rooms within the bowels of the Ministry. So much for a summer wedding in a garden with sunshine and friends and flowers.

So long as this absurd law was in place, this would be my only wedding, and it was going to be an impersonal, rushed affair. It was utterly depressing, especially since it was my own fault. Had I not been insistent on waiting until the last minute, we could have had a nicer option.

For his part, Harry at least tried to make me feel better about it by pointing out that perhaps we could still have flowers and then suggesting that we track down some of our friends, perhaps even just Neville and Luna, to be present for the ceremony. By that point though I was petulant, sour, and unhappy. What was the point of having friends and flowers or even a wedding dress? This whole bloody thing was a farce anyway, I thought to myself.

“Assembly line wedding it is, I suppose,” I said with a frown.

He snorted. “I said the same thing.”

“To?”

“The clerk in charge of scheduling the assistants. He asked me what an assembly line was.”

I sighed. Sometimes it drove me barmy just how ignorant the wizarding world chose to remain when it came to muggle technology.

“Well, the good news is that the betrothal contract is filed, and we are scheduled for late tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Did you… I mean, we could invite someone if you want, now that there’s a date and a time. It would be rather last minute, sure, but if you want people there…I know this isn’t the wedding you wanted.”

He offered me a sympathetic look, and I was suddenly reminded of the quiet days and even quieter nights we spent together in that tent in the woods during the war. It had been bad before, and then Ron left us. We’d been under so much stress, the dark magic of the horcrux necklace affecting us both, and the gravity of what we knew lay ahead for us had been almost overwhelming. And yet, in the midst of that darkness and fear, we had each other. It felt at times as if the whole world was against us, but I had Harry, and he had me, and somehow just knowing that neither of us was truly alone provided the spark of hope that kept us going.

The truth of the matter, if I really stepped back and looked critically at it, was that for all my despair over this blasted law and the fear I felt for the future, I wasn’t alone. I had Harry. He’d been my spark of hope then, my reason to keep going, and here he was by my side yet again, ready to protect me.

I was truly very lucky, all things considered, and I suddenly felt ashamed that I’d even considering wallowing over not having the wedding ceremony I’d envisioned.

I offered him a smile then, what felt like the first genuine smile I’d smiled in ages.

“I don’t need anyone,” I said softly.

“You sure?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Positive. Just you. Well, you and a Ministry officiant.”

In that moment, I could picture my wedding ceremony. I could picture the ritual space in the Ministry, and I could see myself there, with Harry. It would just be us, us and the officiant, and our magic. I hadn’t given it much thought before, as I’d been stuck on more muggle notions of weddings and what they should be, but the idea of marrying Harry in private suddenly felt right. The sacredness and intimacy of an exchange of magic, critical to the marital binding, was not something I wanted to share with an audience, even an audience of friends.

“It’ll be like eloping,” he said with a hint of a smile.

“Yes! Exactly. Are you okay with that?” I asked, suddenly aware that perhaps he’d wanted the supporting presence of friends.

“As long as you’re there, that’s all that matters. I mean, the whole garden idea would have been rather nice too, but I don’t care where it happens or who is there. Honestly given the situation and our desire to keep everyone out until it’s all said and done so none of those arseholes in the Ministry can try to marry us off to anyone else, keeping it to just us is probably for the best,” he said.

I was relieved at his lack of objection, and I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

“We’ll just have to find a way to sneak into the ritual spaces without attracting a lot of attention. We’ve got less than 24 hours to go, so you are going to leave now and get out of the Ministry before someone leaks the news of our agreement.”

“I am?”

“Yes. I’m getting out of here as well. I’ve got some paperwork to do, but I can take it home with me. And you’re going to go find a dress.”

“Excuse me?”

“We may be doing this because of a stupid law, and it may not be the wedding either of us would have planned under different circumstances, but you should at least feel like you can get something new and nice to wear.”

“Did you just imply that there’s something wrong with what I wear every day?” I asked. I was teasing him, and I enjoyed the momentary look of fear on his face. Harry was so very dear to me, and one of the best, most decent people I’d ever known, but he also tended to stick his foot in his mouth on a fairly regular basis, and I’d walked in on far too many arguments between him and Ginny over something he’d said that she’d then taken the wrong way.

“No, of course not. You look nice all the time. I just…”

He ran his fingers through his hair in that adorably awkward way he did when he was afraid saying anything else would just dig himself into a deeper hole.

“I’m teasing Harry,” I said, taking pity on him. He looked relieved.

“Actually, I had been thinking I might go into muggle London to try to find something to wear,” I admitted. Plus in muggle London I could shop freely without worrying about Rita Skeeter sneaking into my fitting room in her animagus form.

“Alright then. Go get a dress, and I’ll see you back at Grimmauld later.” He offered me a lopsided grin before he left.

I sighed loudly in the empty office. It was time to accept reality and go find a wedding dress because we were getting married tomorrow.

 

~oOo~

 

The day of my wedding was sunny and overly warm, and not at all what I expected it to be. It wasn’t like I’d previously dreamed about a perfect princess day - those sorts of dreams were too heartbreaking because of the reminder that Harry had no family, and I was as good as an orphan as well. For me there would be no tearful mother, wiping at her eyes as she helped me put on a wedding veil whilst bridesmaids giggled beside me and exclaimed over how pretty I looked.

Still, I certainly did not expect to be as I was, standing alone in my knickers in my bedroom at Grimmauld Place (which had not been remotely packed or modified in any way since our engagement), rubbing Sleekeazy in my own hair. Normally I could not be bothered with such frivolity, but I thought I should at least _try_ to look more put together for my own wedding. Unfortunately, I’d severely overestimated my ability to style my own hair whilst filled with anxiety over my situation. I was marrying Harry James Potter. My best friend. The wizard who once told Ron, “I love her like a sister.”

I was going to have to have _sex_ with Harry. Today.

I’d already had to stop and cast cooling charms on myself because I’d worked myself into such a state of anxiety that I’d started sweating. “Hot mess” rather appropriately summed me up on this day of all days.

I applied another dollop of Sleekeazy to my hands and finger combed it through my hair, trying to smooth my tangle of curls into something looser and prettier. I had some sort of embarrassingly lofty idea that I’d create a tasteful updo with a few loose ringlets framing my face, but I had to admit to myself now that I was in way over my head - and I’d gotten more than a smidge carried away with the Sleekeazy too.

I finally gave up. Harry wasn’t marrying me because I was a great beauty. If he wanted beautiful, he could have his pick of witches. My hair was now more in admittedly pretty but strange and unfamiliar-to-me waves than the frizz-free curls I’d wanted, and I wrangled it into a low ponytail. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t half bad either, I supposed. It would have to do.

Even applying the barest hints of blush, lip gloss, and light eye makeup made me feel like a little girl playing dress up with her mum’s clothing and cosmetics, but overall I didn’t look half bad, I supposed.

I cast another cooling charm on myself and took a deep breath before I slipped on my dress.

The dress had been yet another unexpected bit of last-minute stress. I could not waltz into the Ministry in full wedding robes or a muggle wedding gown, not if we were to keep the ceremony as private as possible, so I’d ventured into muggle London in search of a vaguely appropriate dress. I was about as skilled at fashion as I was with styling hair or applying cosmetics, and shopping by myself for something as monumental as wedding attire was just depressing.

To my untrained eye, everything had looked awkward and wrong on me: too posh, too formal, too tight, too short. I was adamant about wearing something white. It wasn’t necessarily expected in the wizarding world, but it seemed like an appropriate nod to my muggle heritage. Weary from seemingly endless hours of shopping, I’d finally settled on a dress. It was sleeveless with a high neck accented with a loose fabric bow, a narrow waist, and a flared skirt that came down past my knees. In the muggle world, it would definitely be seen as more wedding guest than wedding gown, but it felt like _me_. The material was soft and flowy and felt utterly comfortable. And whilst I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as beautiful, as I stood there in front of the mirror on my wedding day, I at least felt pretty.

The last touch was my engagement ring. I carefully removed it from the moonstone pendant necklace where I’d stored it since Harry gave it to me. I slid it onto my finger and gazed at it for a long moment, moving my hand so the stone caught the light from the window.  

I took a deep and hopefully calming breath then, and I felt the ring’s magic wash over me, easing some of my anxiety.

 _You can do this,_ I told myself. _This is for the best, and it’s going to be okay. You’ve faced down a Dark Lord, you’ve been tortured by an insane witch. You can sure as hell pull yourself together and marry Harry fucking Potter._

I covered the dress with a serviceable set of dark blue robes, the sort that I wore to work most days, made sure I had Harry’s wedding ring and my wand safely tucked away in my pockets, and then I gave my reflection one last glance before heading to the Ministry. It was time to get married.


	7. A Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I started editing this chapter, I ended up rewriting whole sections of it, and it got long enough that I decided to break it up and restructure how I’d divided the action in this and the next few chapters. We don’t have a lot of canon information about magical marriage ceremonies, so I took some creative liberties with this chapter. I look forward to seeing what you think about everything here.
> 
> -Elle

Chapter 7 - A Wedding

The Ministry was a whole new level of crowded when I arrived. With only a few days left before the grace period ended, people were rushing to file betrothal contracts, rushing to marry, and rushing for updated lists of matches and to see if anyone had filed an offer for them. I could only imagine the level of chaos in the Office of Vital Records and Registration.

My original plan for a last minute wedding in a garden with friends was derailed by reality: we’d waited too long and all of the officiants were tied up thanks to this new law. We would be wed in one of the ritual chambers in the depths of the Ministry, with just the two of us and our officiant. I’d initially been upset about that, but after further consideration, it somehow seemed right that it would be just us.

I kept my head down as I moved through security. I’d owled in sick this morning, and Harry had planned to stay at home as well until it was time for the ceremony, but he’d been called into the Auror office to handle some matter or another, and he left hours before me, grumbling as he tucked his invisibility cloak into his Auror robes. As soon as I could, I ducked into an alcove and cast a disillusionment spell on myself. It ended up being a wise move, as I realised moments later that Rita Skeeter was skulking about in the lobby, accompanied by a photographer, likely wanting to talk to anyone well-known who’d just married or filed a betrothal contract.

Betrothal contracts fell into some strange pseudo-public state. They had to be on file for at least 24 hours before a ceremony could take place. This requirement had perplexed me enough that I’d done my own digging and discovered that many years ago, a young couple in love had filed their betrothal contract and then immediately eloped, and by the time her father caught up to them, they’d already wed and consummated the marriage, thus ruining the very lucrative marriage he’d been in the process of negotiating with someone else. After a lot of legislative wrangling in the Wizengamot, the infuriated father had managed to wrest a change in policy out of the Office of Vital Records and Registration: contracts had to be on file for a minimum of 24 hours before the ceremony could take place, ceremonies had to be officiated by a designated Ministry official who had to check to ensure compliance with the contract, and _anyone_ could walk into the Office of Vital Records and Registration and ask if an active contract was on file for anyone else. Complicated magic was needed to keep track of everything.

Disgruntled parties could also file an objection to a betrothal contract, which would put a halt to any planned wedding until it could be resolved. There were narrow circumstances under which an objection could actually force the cancellation of a betrothal contract, but they were strict enough that mercifully the Office of Vital Records and Registration refused to entertain such objections unless there was a high likelihood of success.

The press had been monitoring the incoming contracts carefully, looking for prominent names, and gossip abounded in the Ministry now. As I made my way across the building, I saw Malfoy in the distance, accompanied by several stern-looking wizards, his mother, and a downright stunning witch with dark hair who looked a bit awestruck. They were speaking to a small cadre of reporters, and I had to wonder if the gorgeous witch at his side was his betrothed. If so, he’d certainly moved quickly, considering that he’d tried not all that long ago to get me to marry him. Well, good for him, I supposed. I still did not trust him, but I owed him a great deal for warning me about Warrington.

I realised as I turned and headed for the stairs that a lot of people were talking about Harry and me, including a blonde witch with a nasally voice who had some rather colourful and inaccurate commentary about me as she complained to her friends. Apparently I was an ‘uppity mudblood slag’ who didn’t know her place and had conned Harry Potter into marrying her. Still invisible, I sent a subtle tripping hex her way. It was petty as hell of me, but I felt a sense of satisfaction when she fell and spilled her tea and her stack of parchments everywhere.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of red hair, drawing my attention away from the grumbling witch and her friends who were picking up the parchments she’d dropped. I looked over and my heart caught in my throat at the sight of Ron, weaving through the crowd, frantically searching for someone.

A horrific thought occurred to me then: what if he was looking for _me_? Our betrothal had been made public - the _Daily Prophet_ had run a front page story this morning proclaiming “Boy Who Lived to Marry War Heroine!” A typical Rita Skeeter piece, it was filled with innuendo and misinformation. I’d hoped we could marry before the news got out, but no such luck.

Our 24-hour waiting period was up, or would be momentarily. Neither of us had received any notification of any pending objections filed against our nuptials, but it would be just like Ron to wait until the last minute.

Back in our school years, I would have marched up to him and demanded to know what he was doing, and if he was there to try to talk me out of marrying Harry, I would have stood there and argued with him.

But not today. Maybe I was a traitor to my Hogwarts house, but I had no desire to engage in brave confrontations or difficult conversations today. I was nervous enough about the wedding as it was. I strengthened the disillusionment charm and quickly made my way down the stairs.

I managed to avoid detection as I slipped into our designated ritual room. It was a round room, with walls of black marble and a stone floor. Torches on the wall provided light, along with lit white candles that formed a circle on the floor. I was suddenly thankful I’d not worn a long wedding gown with a train. The chamber was dark, solemn, and intimate, and I was glad that we had chosen against filling the space with people.

I dropped the disillusionment charm then and exhaled in relief, glad to have made it this far. Someone grabbed onto my arm, and I did my best to muffle a shriek.

“Shhh!”

I whirled around in time to see Harry pull his invisibility cloak off, a grin on his face. He was dressed in all in black - black shirt, trousers, and black robe - and he looked ridiculously handsome with a bit of scruff on his face.

“Don’t DO that to me!” I protested in a harsh whisper.

“Nice display of magic there” he said of my strong disillusionment charm before tweaking the end of my ponytail. “This is unexpected.”

I tugged my hair out of his hand, suddenly self-conscious about my appearance. “I had some issues with the Sleekeazy,” I mumbled.

“It’s different. You look really nice,” he said. His widened a moment later. “I mean, you look nice every day. But that’s not… I don’t mean to imply that you doing your hair doesn’t make a difference, but also that you somehow don’t look nice any other day.”

He rubbed at his face in embarrassment as I tried to process the word vomit pouring from his mouth.

“Okay, let’s try this again,” he said, eyes closed and drawing in a deep breath.

He fixed his green eyes on me. “Hermione, I’m so used to seeing you with curly hair that this is unexpected, but you look lovely.”

I smiled at him. “Thanks Harry. You look great too.”

“Hey, are you wearing _makeup_ too?” he asked, leaning in closer to look at my face, and I was suddenly really thankful that despite all of the awkwardness, I was here with my best friend and not a stranger.

“I am, and if you keep acting like it’s some sort of shocking occurrence, I may toss out my lip gloss and never wear it again,” I said, raising my chin defiantly at him.

He laughed nervously and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Did anyone see you?” he asked.

I shook my head and then told him quickly explained how I’d spotted Ron several floors up.

Harry swore under his breath and looked away.

“What? What is it?” I asked, suddenly concerned.

There was precious little time left for someone to stop the ceremony, although as I’d been disillusioned as I’d made my way across the Ministry, I had no way of knowing if an owl was trying to reach me with a notice that an objection had been filed. Dread pooled in the pit of my stomach at the thought that perhaps Harry had received a notice of objection.

“I blew up a howler in my office today,” he said.

“From?”

“Molly.”

“Oh.”

“Dare I ask what it said?”

He shrugged. “More of the same - rants about how you have me under some sort of spell because I’m meant to be with Ginny, and I’m breaking her heart, and you’re meant to be with Ron, and they were going to put a stop to this, and honestly, I stopped listening at that point and hexed it to bits. I thought it was nothing, but if Ron is here…”

His voice trailed off, and whatever he’d planned to say was silenced when a hidden door opened in the marble wall. A Ministry officiant, cloaked in a white hooded robe trimmed in silver entered, wand in hand. The door vanished behind him, and he cast again, sealing the room from any outsiders, and I breathed a sigh of relief. If Ron or Ginny or anyone else was going to try to stop the ceremony, they were too late. Had anyone filed an objection, we’d know by now.

“Are you ready to begin?”

I looked up at Harry and tried to calm the shaking in my hands as I unfastened my robe to reveal the simple white dress beneath.

“Yes, I’m ready.”

 

~oOo~

 

There were multiple variants of magical marital bindings, with varying degrees of formality. We’d opted for simple, and I was thankful now as I stood in the ritual space that I wouldn’t have to recite a lengthy chant in Latin or enter into a blood-bond or soul-binding or anything of that sort. Still, with all of the bindings I’d studied in the days leading up to our ceremony, and with what I could recall from Bill and Fleur’s wedding years before, I could see how some muggle marriage traditions could have been derived from the ritual Harry and I were about to experience.

Despite the cold stone of the room, a sensation of warmth washed over me, the magic of the the ritual already blooming as the officiant cast a series of spells on the circle.

Harry leaned in towards me. “Last chance to back out,” he whispered in a teasing voice.

“I wore white and everything, Harry. You’re stuck with me,” I retorted.

“There’s no one I’d rather be stuck with,” he said. Then he grinned as he looked at my dress and winked at me in that cheeky sort of way he was wont to do before he took his place on the other side of the circle.

And then we began.

“Harry James Potter, do you enter into this ritual circle of your own free will?” The officiant’s voice was oddly melodic in a manner that eased some of my anxiety.

“I do.”

I watched as Harry stepped into the circle, careful not to disturb the flickering candles, and walked to the center. He looked confident and assured, the exact opposite of how I felt.

“Hermione Jean Granger, do you enter into this ritual circle of your own free will?”

My turn. I met Harry’s eyes across the room, and he looked at me as if to say, “What are you waiting for?”

“I do.”

I stepped into the circle.

Rather than a long sermon and musical interludes as was common in muggle weddings, this was a simple but formal ceremony. Under the officiant’s wand, we were magically cleansed and purified. I could feel the officiant’s magic wash over me, starting at the top of my head and moving all the way down to my toes. It felt cool, almost like water but was somehow not wet. I noted that I could still taste the lip gloss on my lips so at least it hadn’t removed the makeup I’d struggled to apply.

I’d done plenty of research into magical marriages and bindings, but I found myself focusing less on the ancient words and more on the way Harry watched me with an intense and unreadable expression on his face.

The officiant turned to Harry.

“Do you come here today, with pure intentions and an open heart?”

Harry’s answering “I do,” was quiet, and his eyes did not leave mine.

The question was repeated for me, and I answered in the affirmative.

“Do you take this witch as your wife? Do you offer her your name, your home, your protection, your devotion, and your fidelity?” he asked Harry.

Harry blinked and then cleared his throat and murmured a quiet, “I do.”

“Do you take this wizard as your husband?” the officiant asked me.

“I do.” My words were soft but my voice did not shake when I said them.

“Will you share with your life and your magic? Will you remain faithful and devoted to him, and will you bear his children and raise heirs for his House?”

I hated that bearing children was part of the vows, for it seemed rather archaic to reduce my value to Harry and the most ancient and noble House of Potter to my ability to get pregnant, but since this stupid law required that we have children, I hadn’t put up too much of a fuss over the vows when we planned this ceremony.

I drew in a deep breath through my nose and then exhaled. “I will.”

Harry offered me a small smile.

“Please join your wand hands together.”

He reached out then and took my right hand, and I silently marveled at how it felt in mine. Had his hand always felt this big in mine? This secure?

I felt an odd sense of calm wash over me as the officiant wrapped a golden cord around our joined hands. He raised his wand and cast a series of spells I knew were meant to bind us together. It was the same concept as an unbreakable vow, but without the deadly consequences.

I had read that this sort of binding resulted in a visual display of magical joining, and I had witnessed it myself at Bill and Fleur’s wedding years ago, but experiencing it myself was something else entirely.

The manifestation of Harry’s magic poured from him, seemingly coming from all over him. It was red, a deep, dark, shade of red that made me think of blood, of passion, of Gryffindor, of desire, and of confidence. These were not normally all things I thought of when I thought about Harry, at least not prior to that first kiss on the sofa at our home, but as I watched his magic moving and swirling between us - a wild, living thing - it was somehow utterly perfectly _him_.

Another wave of the officiant’s wand, and I felt something moving through me. Magic poured off of me as it had with Harry, and yet to my surprise I was not left feeling empty. My own magic was a brilliant, rich, royal purple colour that reminded me of violets or irises. There was something soothing the way it moved in gentle waves.

I watched as it wrapped itself around Harry’s magic, mine a steady, solid colour, and his practically pulsating as it moved. Harry squeezed my hand in what I’m sure was meant to be a comforting gesture, and we both stood in silent awe as the manifestation of our magics swirled and twisted around each other until it formed a spiral that almost looked like a double helix, like DNA, the essence of both of us wound together. It was amazing, and I marveled at the breathtaking beauty of our magic intertwining.

I’d long thought of magic as a force, a power that was within me, something I could call upon and use to do my bidding. I’d never seen it as it was now, this moving almost sentient thing, interacting with Harry’s magic. I’d also never particularly thought of purple and red as colours that went together, but somehow this worked, and it fit together into something new and more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.

This moment, with my hand clasped in his, and our magic joining, was so intimate, so personal that I was suddenly glad we’d opted to share it only with each other.

The swirling helix of magic rose above us, expanding as it turned, and then burst in a shimmering shower of red and purple, filling the darkened chamber with light. This miniature firework display faded into nothingness as the pieces drifted downward. I followed them with my eyes, watching as glittering bits of magic landed on our joined hands and disappeared.

Our magic had touched, moved in concert, and joined itself, and as the physical manifestation of it settled within us, I felt an emotional connection to Harry that hadn’t been there before. I had loved him - as a friend, as the brother I’d never had - but this was different. There was a feeling deep inside my very being that had not existed before.

I’d read once before, many years ago, a childhood story about the red thread of fate, a Chinese legend in which the gods tie an invisible red thread around the ankles of those who are destined to meet, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. This magical cord was said to stretch or tangle, but never break. Such a legend had surely found its origins in magic and marital bindings, for I could feel myself now tethered to Harry. It was not a heavy sensation. It was light and unobtrusive, but unmistakably _there_ , in my heart. I did not love him, not as a wife should love a husband, and I knew he did not love me, but in that moment I felt certain that love would come in time.

Magic moved around us still, warm and comforting. The cord the officiant had wrapped around our joined hands dissolved then, leaving behind only a pale gold mark around our wrists. I knew from my own readings about marital bindings that it would remain as long as we were wed.

“You wish to exchange rings as well?” the officiant asked Harry.

Harry released my hand then, and for a moment, time seemed to move in slow motion. I saw him open his mouth to reply, and whatever words he’d meant to say died on his lips as a banging sound rang out.

His eyes met mine and we both glanced around in confusion until it hit me that someone was banging on the door.

Even though I’d known it was a possibility, the noise still startled me. The doors were locked and sealed. A marital binding was considered sacred, not to be interrupted, but that did not stop the would-be disrupters from trying.

The banging sounded again, the candle flames flickered, and the sound seemed to echo around the silence of the small chamber, for the groom had not answered.

My heart pounded and I could hear the blood rushing in my ears as I looked up into the face of my very best friend. Harry had a strange look on his face as he faced me, still holding my hand.

“Hermione!”

“Harry! Wait!”

The voices were muffled by the sealing spells that kept them locked out, but I’d recognise them anywhere.

Ron and Ginny.


	8. A Disruption

###  Chapter 8 - A Disruption

Ron and Ginny’s presence outside the ritual chamber was honestly not surprising but still disheartening. I watched Harry, the way his eyes widened with surprise at the sound of our former partners yelling our names from outside the sealed room. Then something in his expression hardened, and I saw the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. He made eye contact with the officiant and nodded tersely before looking back at me.

The officiant cleared his throat. “You wish to exchange rings?” he repeated to Harry and me.

I watched in silence, ignoring the banging as Harry reached into his pocket and withdrew the antique gold and diamond wedding band we’d selected from his family’s vault. He held it in open palm between us.

“May magic bless this ring she who wears it.” The officiant’s voice was solemn, and I listened as he moved his wand and cast a series of new protective charms on the ring. 

I had not expected that part, and I looked up at Harry, the question obvious on my face. 

He offered me a grin and a bit of a shrug. “Once an Auror, always an Auror.”

I smiled back, touched by the idea that he’d thought to add an additional layer of protection to the ring I would wear. 

Harry then slid the ring onto my finger, beside the heirloom engagement ring I now wore, and I felt the magic of the charms wash over me. It felt familiar, like Harry, even though he’d not been the one to cast the charms themselves. The gold and diamond band felt heavy on my hand, a reminder of the weight of our life-changing actions. 

There was still yelling coming from outside, and though muffled, the intention was obvious: they wanted us to stop the ceremony. 

This was not how I’d ever envisioned my wedding, and it was hard to not feel resentment bubble up in me. I took a deep, steadying breath and tried to focus solely on Harry and the ceremony.

“Please present the ring,” the officiant prodded me.

I blushed in embarrassment at how I’d allowed the disruption to distract me. I withdrew the ring from a small pocket I’d magically added to my dress and held it out in my hand as Harry had done.

“May magic bless this ring and he who wears it.” Similar protective charms were then placed on Harry’s ring. My hands trembled as I took his hand and slid the ring onto his finger and watched it magically adjust to a perfect fit. He clenched and then flexed his hand and then smiled at me. I wondered if the charms on his ring reminded him of me.

The officiant waved his wand again and began chanting, an ancient request in Latin that magic itself bless our marriage with long lives, children, and happiness. 

Before I could fully mentally prepare myself, the chanting ended. Harry and I looked at each other as the officiant fell silent. It hit me then: this was the last piece of the ritual binding, the kiss. It was meant to symbolise the consummation of the marriage, a hint that we would join as one physically as our magic had manifested and joined together. 

I’d known a kiss was required, the very last piece of the ritual, and I’d thought before we began that I was prepared for it. After all, I’d been so anxious about sex with Harry - the required consummation of the marriage - that a mere kiss did not seem like a big deal. 

Yet here it was, looming before me, and I found myself emotionally unprepared to kiss my new husband. Should it be a right proper snog? With tongue? Could we recreate the passion we’d shared on the sofa at Grimmauld Place? Or was that frowned upon in a ritual binding by proper, traditional witches and wizards? 

Before I could mentally process anything else, Harry leaned in to press his lips against mine. 

Our first kiss as husband and wife. 

His lips were warm, and the kiss chaste. It was awkward, and I found myself somewhat distressed. 

It probably would have been awkward even without Ron and Ginny trying to break in, as Harry and I had not come close to kissing since that drunken interlude on the sofa, but their presence added a whole additional level of strangeness to the experience.

An official marriage certificate was produced, and we both used our wands to prick our fingers, signing the document in blood with a gold quill. As soon as I lifted the quill from the parchment, it disappeared with a small pop, off to file itself in the Office of Vital Records and Registration.

“Go now in peace and finalise the binding,” the officiant said softly. 

We were married, both legally and by magic. I was now Hermione Potter. I was Harry’s wife. It was still hard to wrap my head around that notion.

The ceremony complete and the marriage certificate filed, the spells protecting the chamber were no longer needed and dissolved away. Ron and Ginny Weasley both tumbled through the door, wands out, both of them panting from the apparent exertion of trying to break into the room.

“I object! You have to stop!” Ron yelled.

“You can’t marry her!” Ginny’s voice was frantic as she ran in behind her brother. I heard her plaintive shriek of horror when she saw the gold marking around my wrist, easily visible in my sleeveless muggle dress as I stood beside my new husband. 

I could feel the beginnings of a headache as Ron and Ginny both protested loudly, talking over each other as they laid out - again - their arguments for why we should not be wed.

Ron stepped around his sister and reached for me, grabbing my upper arm and pulling me toward him. I stumbled and narrowly avoided knocking over some of the candles lining in the ritual circle. Once upon a time, I’d liked that Ron was so tall, so much bigger than I was. I did not like it now.

“Look, this whole thing is bollocks,” Ron said, leaning in toward me before I could react. “I know we’ve had problems, but ‘Mione, we’re meant to be together. You and me. Freeing house elves and winning quidditch matches and having lots of curly, red-haired babies.”

Once upon a time, I’d wanted that, wanted all of the rosy pictures Ron could paint about our future. Once upon a time, I’d thought we were meant to be, that I would marry Ron, and Harry would marry Ginny, and we’d all live happily ever after, one big Weasley-Potter-Granger family. 

It wasn’t meant to be. 

I had my wand out in a second and pointed up at his chin.

“Let go of me,” I hissed.

“What the hell is your problem!?” he shot back, releasing his grip on my arm.

“Back off, Ron,” Harry said then, coming up beside me.

“You can’t tell me what to do! I filed an objection!” Ron said triumphantly.

I shook my head. “You’re too late. We’re already married.”

“How could you do this? How could you MARRY her?” Ginny said shrilly, grasping Harry’s arm. 

“I told you, I didn’t want to get married, that we weren’t well-suited,” I heard Harry say to Ginny, even as Ron drew my attention back toward him.

“The ceremony isn’t valid! I filed an objection! We’re matched, ‘Mione. A 95% compatibility.”

“It is absolutely valid! If you’d filed before the ceremony began, they wouldn’t have been able to complete it. We wouldn’t have been able to sign the marriage certificate,” I retorted in anger. “And for the record, Harry and I matched at a 98% confidence level. The only other person with whom I matched THAT closely was Malfoy.”

“MALFOY?”

“Hermione is my WIFE, Ginny, and you need to watch what you say.” Harry’s rising voice caught my attention.

“Look, you and Harry are like, like brother and sister. It’s WRONG, ‘Mione. It’s like… it’s like INCEST for you to be together!” Ron continued.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Harry and I aren’t even related to each other!” I spat back, disgusted that he’d even go there. 

“You can still get out of this! It’s not too late!” Ron yelled.

I stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Excuse me?” Harry said.

Ginny and Harry had stopped arguing at that point, both apparently having overheard Ron.

“It’s not too late to fix this,” Ron said, gesturing to Harry and me. “Yeah, you did the binding, but it has to be consummated to be sealed, and without that, you can petition to undo it. My objection is there, and it’s waiting. It won’t get tossed out until the marriage is sealed, but if it’s not, then we can undo the binding, and you and I can get married, and Gin and Harry can get married.”

His voice was earnest, so very earnest, and I could not believe that he actually expected us to just  _ undo _ the binding. It wasn’t an impossible request, and he was right that it could be undone, but it wasn’t exactly a simple process once we’d gone through the ritual and filed the certificate. 

Plus it wasn’t like I  _ wanted _ to undo it.

I’d chosen Harry. Out of all of the wizards on my list, I’d chosen my best friend. And he’d chosen me. Our magic had intertwined in a ceremony that was both beautiful and intimate, and I had no desire to undo it.

I was furious that after all of this, all of the weeks leading up to this day that Ronald Bilius Weasley just would not _ listen _ to me. I’d turned him down, repeatedly, and yet he’d still had the gall to file an objection to my betrothal and interrupt my wedding.

I could feel my magic bubbling and writhing within me, responding to my anger. The odds of either Ron or Ginny leaving this room without being hexed were rapidly decreasing. 

Before I could respond, I felt Harry’s hand on my back, between my shoulder blades, and then sliding down my spine to rest on my waist as he moved close to me. It was a comforting touch that made me relax slightly. His hand came around my wrist, lowering my wand.

“We aren’t undoing anything,” he said firmly. “We made our choices, and we WILL consummate the marriage and seal the binding. It’s done.”

Ginny opened her mouth to protest, but Harry silenced her and Ron both with a wave of his own wand. 

“You interrupted our  _ wedding _ . This is a sacred ritual, and you… you tried to burst in and ruin it. Why would you think we’d be  _ happy _ about this?” I asked, my voice shaking with anger.

They both began talking, protesting our statements, surely, and I was thankful for the small mercy of a well-placed  _ silencio _ . 

Harry was tense beside me, and I could tell that like me, he was doing his best to keep a tight rein on his anger. 

“We’re done here. I am taking my wife, and we are leaving. If you try to follow us, I  _ will  _ have you arrested. If you continue this harassment, we will be forced to take action, and you won’t like the consequences.” Harry’s voice was quiet in that deadly and scary sort of way that screams, ‘I mean business,’ and in that moment I was reminded that the wizard beside me had once defeated Voldemort. Harry was a force to be reckoned with. 

A throat cleared behind us, and I turned to see the officiant who’d performed our ritual, along with two security guards.

“We must ask you to leave this ritual space. There are many others who are scheduled to wed today,” he said in an almost apologetic voice. 

Harry pushed me forward gently, steering me around Ron so I could retrieve the dark blue robe I’d worn in over my dress. 

“Wycroft, is that you?” he said, nodding toward one of the security guards.

“Yes sir, Auror Potter.” The younger guard looked thrilled that THE Harry Potter was speaking to him.

“Good to see you. Do me a favour and escort these two out of the building. They interrupted a ritual marriage binding,” he said, motioning with his wand toward Ron and Ginny, both of whom were gesturing at us with a mix of anger and horror on their faces.

“Do you want me to arrest them?” Wycroft asked sternly. 

I draped my robe over my left arm and continued to hold my wand in my right hand as I moved back to Harry’s side. Harry looked at our former significant others for a long moment. 

“In light of the years of our friendship and the hospitality your family once offered me, I am willing to let this go and not have either of you arrested, as long as you both back off. Leave my wife and me alone. If any harm comes to either of us, the blame will be directed at the both of you,” he said to Ron and Ginny.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked then, looking down at me. I nodded, still stunned by the unexpected dramatic scene that had just played out at our wedding. 

I was also more than a little in awe of Harry in Auror mode. Oh sure, I’d seen him do amazing acts of magic in our many years of friendship, but this was different. This was Harry, my best friend, my husband, protecting me, protecting our relationship. I’d never really considered myself the ‘damsel in distress’ type. I liked my independence, and I liked being in charge of myself and my life. I had to admit though that it was pretty nice to have someone care about me enough to intervene on my behalf. 

He turned to the guards then. “Get them out of here.”

I watched in silence as a protesting Ron and Ginny were dragged out of the room. The officiant motioned for us to leave then, as another couple was surely waiting to use the space for their own binding ceremony.

Harry held out his arm for me. 

“Well, Mrs. Potter, are you ready to go home?”


	9. Coming Home

Chapter 9 - Coming Home

 

We were accosted in the Ministry lobby by several reporters and photographers, including Rita Skeeter. We ignored them all, not responding to a single camera flash or shouted question as we made our way toward the floos. I was fairly certain Skeeter would use the least attractive photo she could possibly get of us, but I’d sadly grown accustomed to that sort of behaviour from her. As we pushed through the crowd, I made a mental note to myself that I would need to draft a statement formally announcing our marriage that could run in the newspaper and would hopefully offer a tasteful counterpoint to whatever absurdity Skeeter published.

We floo’d back to Grimmauld Place and immediately locked down the fireplace so no one else could call or come through. Once safely ensconced in our home, I wasn’t sure what to do. Harry and I had previously talked through the wedding, but we’d avoided discussing the wedding night.

Did he want to seal the binding now? Given Ron’s insistence that he could somehow undo our binding, sealing it by consummating the marriage straight away seemed like a good - albeit wholly unromantic - idea. I was absurdly nervous about the idea of sex with Harry, and I’d hoped that we could perhaps go out for a nice dinner somewhere in the muggle world, have some wine, and treat it more like, well, I’d hesitated to think of it as a _date_ , but that’s more or less what I wanted. Plus the idea of having a few glasses of wine first seemed like a fine one, as I thought it would help us both with any nervousness over what we had to do.

Before I could question Harry about his intentions, he yelled out a curse word as he tossed a candlestick from the fireplace mantle. I startled at the noise and from the angry outburst and then withdrew my wand and levitated the candlestick and the candle back into place and repaired the dent it had left in the wall.

“What was that for?” I asked, my voice sounding calmer than I felt.

“I cannot believe that just fucking happened!” he snapped, gesturing to the floo. “What the hell is wrong with them that they don’t LISTEN?”

Oh. Ron and Ginny. And I supposed Molly too, since she’d apparently sent Harry a howler.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t angry at their actions. Disrupting our wedding, however government-required or assembly line it may have been, was in the height of poor taste, and it wasn’t something I’d likely get over anytime soon. The bulk of my anger though was reserved for the idiots at the Ministry who’d put us all in this situation in the first place. The whole day was still so surreal that it hadn’t really sunk in yet. I felt vaguely like I was having a bit of an out of body experience.

I let Harry rant until he got it out of his system and flopped down onto the sofa, burying his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry. For yelling like that. I’m not angry at you,” he said, his voice muffled by his hands.

“I know. I didn’t think you were.”

He looked at me finally, and I can only imagine how awkward I looked, standing there in front of the fireplace in my muggle dress - not even a real wedding gown - and still holding my robes and my wand.

“I’m sorry they ruined our wedding. It wasn’t what I wanted, at all, and you - you deserved better than that.”

“We both did.”

“Yeah, but isn’t that a thing, the bride being all particular about her wedding, more so than the groom?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I’m not really like other girls though.” I draped my robe over a nearby wingback chair and stowed my wand.

“No, you aren’t.” He sighed. “I just feel bad. You said you wanted a garden wedding, and we couldn’t make that happen. We were married alone, save for our exes, who crashed the only wedding we’ll have.”

I frowned. “Well, it’s not like it was your fault. You couldn’t help that the Ministry was overbooked or that this stupid law gave us no time.”

The rest of his words sunk in then.

“Wait. What do you mean the only wedding we’ll have?”

“I mean, it’s a wedding. Most married couples typically only have one,” he said.

“Well, yes, but…” my voice trailed off. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d subconsciously held onto this idea that when the Ministry eventually came to their senses and overturned this utterly ridiculous law, Harry and I would be free to divorce and go our separate ways if we wanted. It occurred to me that perhaps this was the sort of thing that we should have discussed _before_ we married, but I suppose that’s the sort of thing that happens when you’re forced to marry with minimal notice, and you suggest marriage to your best friend whilst under the influence of too much alcohol.

“But what?” he asked.

“I, um, I just assumed that eventually the law would be overturned, and you know…”

He just looked at me, as if he expected me to continue.

“I assumed you’d want a divorce,” I mumbled, unable to look him in the eye.

He frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, because it’s _us_. I mean, we married because we had to, not because we’re madly in love. I wouldn’t...I don’t expect you to want to stay married to me if you can have your freedom later. I value your friendship too much to want to trap you.”

An awkward silence stretched between us before he finally spoke.

“You do know that this law requires that we have at least two children in the next few years, and that it could very well take a few years of lobbying and public outcry to undo the law,” he pointed out.

“I know.”

He stood them and walked across the room to where I was awkwardly positioned halfway behind the faded wingback chair. It occurred to me as my fingers picked at the damask fabric that we really ought to have it reupholstered - and that now that Harry and I were married, it was technically my chair too and mine to remake. It was probably something Sirius’s awful mother had selected, and her aesthetic was mostly ‘dark and dreary.’

“Hermione?”

I forced myself to look up at Harry.

“My parents are gone, I don’t want anything to do with my aunt and uncle, and Dudley doesn’t exactly count for much as far as relatives go. Your parents can’t remember you. As far as I’m concerned, _you_ are my family. You, and any children we have. I won’t leave you, even if this stupid law is overturned, and I would never, _ever_ leave our children.”

“Oh,” I breathed out, staring up at him in wide-eyed nervousness.

It was Harry’s turn to look hesitant then as he extended a hand toward me and then paused.

“I mean, if you were truly miserable, if you hated being married to me, and the law was repealed, I suppose we could work out something. I wouldn’t want… you’re my best friend, and I wouldn’t want to force you to stay if you hated me.”

“I could never hate you, Harry,” I said truthfully.

He offered me a bit of a crooked smile and seemed to relax slightly.

“This whole day has been surreal, and I’m sure that once everything sinks in, I’ll be the first in line to send Ron a howler, but I don’t want to think about all of that right now,” I admitted.

He studied me for a long moment, not saying anything. I nervously picked at the fabric of the chair in front of me, afraid to hold his gaze but afraid to look away.

“What are you thinking?” I finally whispered as he moved closer to me.

“I’m thinking...I’m thinking that I didn’t kiss you the way I wanted to kiss you at the ceremony,” he admitted.

I’m pretty sure I made a rather embarrassingly high-pitched “eep” sort of noise.

“You didn’t?”

He shook his head. “I was distracted by the idiots banging on the door.”

Well, that made two of us then. I’d admittedly been distracted as well.

 _Be brave, Hermione. Be brave,_ I silently urged myself.

“How, um, how did you want to kiss me?” I met his steady gaze with what I hoped was a challenging look and arched an eyebrow at him.

A hint of a smile graced his face, and I was struck by the notion that my _husband_ \- gosh it felt strange even thinking the word - was absurdly handsome.

“I was thinking something more like this,” he said softly as his hand brushed my cheek and cupped my face.

And then he kissed me.

A gentle press of his lips against mine, a strong arm around my waist, pulling me close to him, a nibble on my bottom lip. I wound my arms around his neck and parted my lips, welcoming a deeper kiss.

It occurred me to me then as he kissed me there in front of the fireplace that I’d been wrong. I’d thought the drunken snog on the sofa some nights past had been the best kiss of my life. But this… kissing Harry, kissing Harry without the haziness of alcohol to cloud my thoughts and my senses, was incredible.

He tasted of mint, and the scruff on his unshaved jaw rubbed against me in a tantalizingly rough way that I liked, and he felt strong and secure as he held me close, pressing my smaller frame against his own.

I’d read romance novels before, utterly ridiculous books with flowery euphemisms for the male and female anatomy, filled with absurd notions of how world-changing a single kiss could be. I’d never thought it possible to experience such a thing in real life, at least not until this kiss.

I felt weak in the knees and heady with desire, and I _wanted_. I wanted so much more, and I couldn’t figure out how I’d gone from absurdly nervous to sliding my leg up Harry’s and clutching at him because I needed to be closer to him.

We were both panting when he at last broke off the kiss, pulling back slightly to gaze down at me.

“Wow,” he breathed.

I nodded, not trusting myself with words. I realised then that I’d draped my thigh over part of his leg, and that his hand had slid down my back to cup my arse.

“It’s, um, it’s probably best that we didn’t kiss like this in the ceremony,” I managed to push out.

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second as our position sunk in, and then he threw his head back and laughed, and it was such a beautiful, joyful noise. Harry didn’t laugh often enough. Life had not brought him enough happiness, and I wanted to hear this sound from him, see this look on his face as often as possible.

He grinned at me and then cupped my face again. “You’re right. I don’t want anyone to see us like this. This - this is for our eyes only.”

He kissed me again, and I couldn’t remember why I’d thought I’d need wine to be able to do this. I clung to him, even as he released his hold on me to shrug out of his outer robes, leaving him in his black trousers and shirt. Suddenly getting rid of clothing seemed like a great idea, and I popped open the top button on his shirt. His Adam’s apple bobbed as I inhaled the spicy scent of his cologne and pressed a kiss to the hollow of this throat.

His hand clutched in my hair as I popped open another button and let my lips trace the newly-revealed skin. I opened another button and slid my hand inside, laying my palm over his heart. I couldn’t feel it beating through skin and bone, of course, but somehow the gesture felt right, and familiar.

It hit me then. We’d been here before, his lips over my heart, when we’d been jolted by magic.

I paused and looked up at him then.

“The jolt,” I whispered.

He looked confused, but then it dawned on him as well. He covered my hand with his own, holding it over his heart.

“I researched, I looked for answers, why that might happen, but I couldn’t figure it out,” I admitted. “I…there were books missing from the library, and I... I don’t know what caused that Harry, but what if it happens again? What if it happens every time we’re, you know, _intimate_? How are we supposed to seal the binding if -”

He pressed a finger from his free hand over my lips, cutting me off.

“I know what caused it,” he admitted.

“WHAT? You do? But… how?” I stammered in shock.

He grinned then. “I would like the record to state that I, Harry James Potter, know something that Hermione Jean Potter does not know,” he said in a teasing voice.

I jerked my hand back from his chest, stung by his teasing words and by his use of my married name. “Oh, you! What is it? How did you find it? WHY didn’t you _say_ something to me before?!”

He laughed again and then reached for my hand. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. I’m a mean, wicked, evil woman for cutting you off there and not giving you more snogging. I promise, more is coming soon! I love that so many people adored protective Harry in his Auror mode in the last chapter. Hermione’s a lucky witch! Thank you to all of you lovely people who continue to read this story and share your thoughts with me.
> 
> Cheers,  
> Elle


	10. Ancient Magic

Chapter 10 - Ancient Magic

He took me by the hand and led me to his bedroom, the room that had once belonged to his godfather. I’d been in this room before, of course, as we’d lived together for years, but I felt as if I was seeing it with new eyes. After the war, Harry had come to the painful conclusion that Sirius would have wanted him to live his life and not be beholden to memories of the dead. Slowly the old muggle posters of motorcycles and bikini-clad models a teenage Sirius had stuck to the wall to irritate his bigoted pureblood parents came down. And then the peeling charcoal grey wallpaper was removed along with the heavy, moth-eaten velvet drapes, and light and new life was breathed into this tired, sad space. 

Harry had spent weekends and free evenings oiling and refinishing some of the beautiful antique furnishings, and he’d ventured into the muggle world, coming back with blue bedding, ivory curtains, and a multi-coloured oriental rug. I’d helped him paint the walls, and over time he’d brought in a few pieces of muggle art. I knew our friends who’d been raised in the magical world thought nothing of having magical portraits in the home, but the idea of having a talking portrait in our bedrooms with just too weird and uncomfortable for Harry and me both. 

It was still a masculine space, and everything about it said “Harry” to me, from the decided lack of throw pillows to the pile of quidditch robes and gear he’d tossed in the corner of the room. 

I followed him in and closed the door behind me. “What did you want to show me?” I asked.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and motioned me over. I approached nervously and perched on the edge of the mattress beside him. 

“Really Harry, I accept that we’re going to have sex tonight. It’s part of the deal. You don’t have to lure me here under false pretenses and promises of knowledge,” I said drily. 

He barked out a laugh at that and then reached for a stack of books on his bedside table.

“I’ll keep that in mind, but actually I DID have something to show you, I mean, aside from my ‘wand,’” he teased. 

Had I been drinking anything, I surely would have choked on the euphemism. 

“About that jolt. I did some research, and I found out something really interesting.”

I was so distracted by the idea of Harry voluntarily doing research that I almost missed him handing me a book that had been on his bedside table. I gasped when I saw the title.

“This book! I was looking for this book, you big prat! Do you mean to tell me you’ve had the book I was looking for in the Ministry library this whole time?” I demanded.

“Were you looking for these too?” he asked, holding up two other books.

My mouth fell open at the sight of every text I’d searched for but been unable to locate.

“YES! How could you have these and not TELL ME!” I exclaimed, whacking him with the book in my hand.

Harry laughed at me and then snatched it from my grasp. 

“You’re so violent when it comes to books! I can’t believe this! I want the record to state that I, Harry James Potter, got to the library BEFORE you did!” he teased. “Has that EVER happened before? Like, ever?”

I pouted. “You should have told me what you found!” 

He held up a hand defensively. “To be fair, I assumed you’d already been there and found it and therefore wouldn’t care that I checked out these books.”

“I can’t believe this,” I grumbled under my breath. All this time, whatever the answer to that jolt between us had been, it had been right under my nose, here in Harry’s room, and my big prat of a husband hadn’t bothered to tell me.

I sighed. “Well, aren’t you going to tell me what you discovered?”

“Wait. Hold on.” He held up a hand and closed his eyes. “I need to savour this moment a bit longer. I know something you don’t. It may never happen again.”

I whacked him with my hand this time, and he elbowed me back teasingly, a huge grin on his face. 

“Oi! I’ve got such a violent wife! Okay, okay! I yield.”

He flipped open one of the books then. “This is one of those things that I assume pureblood children learn growing up that no one thought to tell either of us. I mean, maybe if there hadn’t been a war, it would have come up for discussion at some point. I like to think so anyway.”

He thumbed through the pages until he got to a section on compatible magic and showed it to me. “We already know from the Ministry testing that we are magically compatible. Basically your magic likes mine, and it should mesh well together. According to this, magic responds to our own consent and desire, and what happened to us was a physical manifestation of that.”

I frowned as I tried to listen to Harry and skim the book’s pages at the same time. 

“By that rationale, shouldn’t we have been physically shocked during the wedding, when our hands were bound with the cord or when we kissed?” I asked. “I mean, we watched a physical manifestation of our own magic join together!”

“No, because it had already happened. What were you thinking when that jolt happened?” he asked. 

I glanced up at him, at the earnest way he was looking at me, and I blushed. “I, um… why?”

“When we were jolted, my lips were over your heart, and I kissed you there, and I was thinking…” his voice trailed off and he cleared his throat before continuing. “I was thinking that this felt right. You and me, together like that. It felt right, and I could see myself marrying you. I hadn’t fully thought it before, but then you suggested it, and I kissed you, and it was like… it was everything just snapped into place, and suddenly this crazy idea made sense. WE made sense.”

My eyes filled with tears in spite of myself, and I tried to blink them back. 

“So tell me, what were you thinking when I kissed you here?” he repeated, reaching out to brush his fingertips lightly over my chest and making my heart rate speed up. 

Somehow this moment, here in Harry’s bedroom, was far more intimate than the snogging downstairs or even the magical binding of our marriage ritual. I reached up to take Harry’s hand in mind, squeezing his fingers gently before shifting our joined hands to rest in my lap. 

“I, ah, I was thinking that I knew then that I could marry you, and I could be very happy as your wife,” I admitted in a shaky voice. Yes, this was definitely more intimate. 

My eyes met Harry’s, and he grinned.

“Our magic accepted that, us both deciding that we could be together,” he said.

I frowned at that. “Wait - you mean to say that our magic decided for us? As in, bound us together somehow? How is that even possible without active consent?”

“It’s not really a binding, not like the marriage ritual we did today. It’s more...I’m not sure I’m saying this right,” Harry mumbled as he let go of my hand to thumb through one of the books. 

“I wonder…” I mused, my voice trailing off as thoughts twisted in my head.

“What?”

“Two people deciding they want to be together, experiencing a magical jolt or a spark. I can’t help but wonder if perhaps the idea of Cupid and his magical arrow has its roots in this ancient magic,” I postulated.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up as he looked up from the book. “I hadn’t even thought about that, but it seems reasonable that some muggle myths and practices are rooted in ancient magic like this. I mean, before the Statute of Secrecy muggles and wizards intermingled, so I guess I could see how it could get warped over time into a story about Cupid. Maybe that’s something you can research at some point.”

Before I could reply, he found what he was looking for in the book and pointed out different passages to me. The basic idea, as I understood it from his explanation and what he was showing me, was that if two people mutually accepted each other for marriage, and their magics were compatible, their magic itself could connect in that moment of acceptance, resulting in some kind of an outward physical sign. 

“So why haven’t I heard of this before? We’ve plenty of friends who’ve married or gotten engaged,” I pointed out.

Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and then opened the third book. “Yes, well, from what I can tell, it doesn’t always happen. Maybe two people are magically compatible and one person accepts the idea of marriage but the other doesn’t, or they both accept but their magic isn’t as highly compatible as ours. This one wizard, um, what’s his name…”

He frowned as he scanned the page. 

“Hyronius something or other. I can’t find him on here. Anyway, he had this theory that the more compatible two people are when they mutually accept the idea of marriage, the more noticeable a response would be from their magic. It doesn’t happen for everyone, or maybe it does happen for some but it’s mild enough that they don’t notice it or dismiss it. Or maybe it happens for two people, and they just decide to keep it to themselves and not share it widely. Who knows?”

He reached for another book on the bedside table. “This author used far too many words to essentially say that he believed that despite our small population, magic would not die out if people heeded those signs of compatibility.”

I took that in. “So almost a theory of ‘survival of the fittest’ then? If people heeded signs of magical compatibility and married and had children together, they had a better chance of producing magical children?”

“Pretty much.”

I traded books with him. “Did this author have any theories about magical power? Do highly compatible pairs produce children with more magical power?”

Harry shrugged. “He speculated to that end but had no proof. Admittedly this is a biased text too because it doesn’t really address muggleborns, so there’s probably a lot of research you could do in that area if you really wanted to. And of course, when this was written there was no way to test for magical compatibility like we can now.”

I lifted my head from the book to meet his eyes. “You think the marriage law is based on this theory?”

“I think the research that discovered a way to test for magical compatibility was based on his theories. Add in generations of wizards and witches inbreeding and arranging marriages based on supposedly ‘pure’ blood and not allowing their children to find a magically compatible match, and multiple wars resulting in a lot of deaths, and you end up here,” he said. 

I’d seen the published data about the compatibility testing, but I been more focused on avoiding the law than understanding the magic behind it. 

“And you think that’s what that jolt was - our magic recognising our acceptance of each other?” I clarified, going back to the matter at hand.

“Yeah, I do. I mean, I don’t see what else it could be. It wasn’t painful, but it was sure noticeable, and our match was very high based on the Ministry’s test. According to everything I read, it seems like this is kind of a one-time thing that happens to some people, so it’s not like we’re going to shock each other when we, you know.”

He jerked his head toward the pillows and headboard, and I was tempted to giggle at the idea of my husband referring to sex as ‘you know,’ but at the same time I was also incredibly relieved. I didn’t fancy the idea of our magic jolting us every time we were intimate.

I tried to wrap my head around both this new information and the idea that Harry had, of his own volition, gone to the library, researched an unfamiliar magical phenomenon, and checked out books about it. 

“I, um, I know I should have talked to you about it, but I was curious, and, well, it seemed like the sort of thing you’d want to know as well. I meant to tell you earlier, but time got away from me with all of the drama around this stupid law, and then I thought maybe you’d done the research already and knew what it was and just didn’t want to talk about it, and so I wasn’t sure what to say. Say something, Hermione. You’re beginning to worry me a bit,” he said, nudging me with the book in his hand.

“I can’t believe you did this,” I said softly, looking at the books we held between us.

A worried look crossed his face. “You’re not cross with me, are you? Because I made off with the books you wanted?”

“Oh Merlin, no! Well, maybe a bit. I mean, I was irritated that the books weren’t there and the librarian wouldn’t tell me who had them so I could try to track them down myself, and if I’m perfectly honest with myself I have to admit that I’m more than a smidge irritated with you for not telling me that you had these books. But you...you did research. For me. For us.” I gazed up at him in wonder at this, and it struck me then that surely we were indeed compatible for who else would ever do research for me like this?

Harry took one look at my face - which must have had some sort of rapturous gaze on it - and snorted with laughter. 

“Admit it: it turns you on a little bit, doesn’t it?”

He looked far too cocky for my taste and far too pleased with himself, and I was not about to admit that um, yes of course a man doing research for me was hot. 

“I am not going to dignify that with a response,” I said primly, taking a book from him. “And you owe me these books. I cannot BELIEVE that you did research WITHOUT me! What kind of husband are you???” 

He laughed openly this time and flung an arm over my shoulder, holding me close to him. “Don’t ever change, Hermione,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

“And for the record, I expect you to hold onto those books until I have a chance to read them myself and take notes on everything,” I continued, ignoring his laughter.

He rubbed a little circle with his thumb on my shoulder, his touch warming my skin. “I have them for another week. I knew you’d want to read them.”

I looked up at him, and I was struck by the notion that the wizard I’d chosen, the wizard I’d married knew me so well that he knew to research this odd magical experience we’d shared and that he knew to hold onto the books so I could peruse them on my own. 

“Thank you, Harry,” I said softly.

I knew in that moment that I didn’t need dinner in a posh restaurant and a bottle of wine to ease me into consummating our marriage. This bit of time, this shared intimacy of books and magic and learning in Harry’s bedroom was utterly perfect. It was us. It would always be us. 

This time I took the initiative and leaned in to press my lips to his. I was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is: the explanation behind the jolt. The good news: there IS smut in the next chapter. The chapter is literally titled Consummation. The bad news: I’m not finished writing it. I’ll do my best to avoid making you wait a long time for it. Thank you to everyone still reading and following along with my journey into Harmony!
> 
> -Elle


	11. Consummation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the delay in getting this to you. The last few weeks of my semester were a beast and I've been very busy with my real job. Thank you for your patience and for sticking with me. There are probably two more chapters after this one (I think), and I'm hoping I can wrap this up within the next few weeks. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the much-anticipated consummation of Hermione and Harry's marriage.
> 
> \- Elle

Chapter 11 - Consummation

 

I kissed Harry without hesitation this time, without fear or nervousness. I kissed him with enthusiasm and familiarity, as if kissing him was something I did every day.

Our first kiss was a drunken snog, our second a chaste peck on the lips during our binding, our third a mix of desire or nervousness. This kiss was different though. This was a kiss of acceptance, of contentment, of building joy.

I was vaguely aware of the books sliding from his lap onto the floor below as Harry welcomed me into his arms. We were a tangle of limbs and too many clothes, and that blasted skirt on my dress got stupidly pinned beneath his leg and pulled taut when I tried to lean into Harry and slide my left leg over his thigh, but it didn’t matter because Harry was kissing me and pressing my chest into his and tugging at my hair in a way that made me moan.

I kicked off my heels and slid a hand under the still-unbuttoned collar of his shirt and let out a whimper of pleasure when I felt his lips and teeth on my earlobe. We moved in concert, shifting on the bed until my head hit the pillow, Harry above me, my skirt still tangled awkwardly between us.

He pulled back enough to look down at me with an expression of desire on his face that I never, ever thought I’d see from my best friend.

“I know we didn’t really, um, talk about this much, but do you…” he paused and then dropped his head, no longer looking me in the eye. “Fuck, this is weird.”

“What?” I asked breathlessly, a small panic starting to build in my mind. _What was weird? Was I weird? Was it strange and uncomfortable to be with me?_

“Talking to you about sex. It’s kind of…”

“Surreal?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I asked, shifting to try to free my tangled skirt.

“No. No! It’s...I don’t want to push you into anything. I mean, I know we have to-”

“Shh,” I breathed out in a soothing tone as I reached out tentatively and brushed his perpetually messy hair back from his face.

His eyes met mine, and I offered him a small smile. “You aren’t. Pushing me into anything, that is. I… I want this, Harry. I do. I promise, if you do something I don’t like, I’ll tell you.”

A look of sheer relief crossed his face, and I realised he was perhaps as nervous as I was.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Don’t stop,” I whispered, putting my hands at his waist and tugging at his shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his trousers.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” he responded immediately, kissing me again in a meeting of lips and teeth and tongue that expressed his relief. And it was a relief, I supposed, to know that Harry was just as nervous as I was.

We moved together in a way that was both familiar and new, me pressing my lips to his jaw, his ear, his neck as he bent to toe off his shoes and pull off his socks, him lifting me up to unzip my dress and pausing so I could unbutton his shirt and slide it from his shoulders. I’d seen Harry shirtless before, many times, but I’d never been able to run my fingers over the muscles of his chest and back, never been able to lightly trail a fingernail over his nipple and hear his sharp intake of breath. It was heady to know that I affected him as much as he affected me.

I should have been nervous when he pulled down the top of my dress, revealing the delicate pale pink lace bra I’d bought for this day. I should have been nervous when he didn’t stop but continued to tug at the fabric, lifting my hips and sliding the silky soft dress down my thighs until I kicked it away, leaving me dressed only in my bra and the matching knickers. I should have been nervous, for I’d never once been this bared before Harry, but he was gazing at me with such a heated and intense look that I felt beautiful and sexy and _powerful_.

His touch was reverent, his hands almost worshipful as he slid them up my thighs, over my hips and belly and finally over my lace-covered breasts.

“Beautiful, so beautiful,” he murmured, pressing his lips to my breast, just above the lace’s edge.

I wound my fingers into his hair and wrapped my legs around his waist. His erection tented his trousers and pressed against my knickers in the most delicious of ways, and I couldn’t help but roll my hips into him and arch my back into his touch, my whisper of his name a soft prayer of thanksgiving, of grace.

He kissed across my chest as his hands slipped beneath me to fumble with my bra.

And then.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“It’s stuck.”

“What?””

“The - fuck! The damn clasp,” he admitted, his breath tickling my collar bone and neck.

I couldn’t help it - I giggled. It was such an utterly real and human moment in the midst of intimacy, and it was so perfectly _us_. We weren’t cinematic perfection. We weren’t the stuff of romance novels, and we probably never would be, and somehow that was _okay_.

“I’m ruining this whole mood, aren’t I?” he muttered.

“No,” I said, taking his face in my hands to look into his green eyes. “No, this is _us_ , and it’s familiar and real, and I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.”

The sincerity in my words seemed to take his breath away as he gazed at me. He turned his head to kiss my palm.

“I’m going to need you naked. _Right now_ ,” he said into my palm as I laughed again.

We both fumbled with the hook-and-eye closure of the bra together until it came loose. As soon as it was off, I flopped back onto the pillow and reached for the belt on Harry’s trousers. If I was about to be naked, he needed to be as well. I managed to get the belt and trousers both unfastened as he traced fingers, lips, and tongue across my breasts, but the moment his lips closed around my nipple, I lost all sense of what I had been trying to do.

There were not words to describe what he did with his mouth.

I’d always enjoyed having a man lavish attention on my breasts and my nipples, but never before had it felt this exquisite, shooting a spark of pleasure down my body that reverberated in my core.

“More,” I gasped, clutching at his hair to hold him to my breast.

He mumbled something incoherent against, my nipple, and I nearly came off the mattress when he rubbed two fingers over the damp seam of my knickers. It seemed silly now that I’d worried about sex with Harry, worried that we’d be awkward and uncomfortable and somehow all wrong. I’d not been this turned on in a long time.

“Oh fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned as he tugged my knickers aside, stroking, touching, exploring my body and pressing two fingers up inside of me.

“Oh god, yes.” I arched into his touch, rolling my hips in concert with the movement of his fingers.

The elastic of my knickers was digging uncomfortably into my hip, stretched as it was to accommodate his hand, and it was distracting me from the downright sinful things he was doing with his mouth and his fingers. I shifted underneath him and tried to shimmy out of my knickers without tangling his hand in them.

“Someone’s eager,” he said teasingly.

“Shut up and take off your trousers.”

I spit it out reflexively, without forethought, and Harry laughed uproariously.

“A wise wizard always listens to his wife,” he said with mock sincerity, making me snicker as he knelt above me and quickly unfastened his trousers. I kicked off my knickers and watched as Harry undressed. Underneath the all-black attire he’d worn for our binding, he had on red pants with little golden snitches all over them.

I couldn’t resist snickering, and the words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them.

“Is that a snitch in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?” It was, quite possibly, the single most ridiculous thing I’d ever said, and I couldn’t quite believe I’d actually said them. In bed. Whilst naked with my new husband. A felt a blush of embarrassment spread across my cheeks.

He froze for a moment before wrinkling his nose at me.

“It’s good thing I married you before I knew how awful your pick-up lines were. No wonder you’ve been single all this time!”

“Harry!” I sputtered with mock indignation, swatting lightly at him. Truthfully, I was more in awe of the size of the bulge in his pants than I was his insult over my goofy pick-up line. I’d suspected he was well-endowed that night we’d snogged on the sofa, but this was impressive.

He crawled back onto the bed, a ridiculous grin on his face. “You should know, love, that I never keep a snitch in my pants. There’s no room for it, and it’d be damned impractical, really.”

I laughed at his absurd comment and then shrieked when he tickled my rib cage. Somehow I managed to both swat at him and pull him closer to me at the same time, and the next thing I knew, we were kissing again. Never in my life had I thought I’d be naked and laughing with Harry Potter, and yet here we were, and it felt so incredibly right.

“Now it’s just your ego talking,” I chided against his lips. I felt, rather than saw, him smile against me.

“Of course it’s my ego talking: Hermione Granger is naked in my bed.”

“Potter.”

“What?”

“Hermione Potter,” I corrected, tugging at his pants.

He lifted his head to look at me. “Hermione Potter,” he repeated with a grin as he casually tossed his glasses on the bedside table.

“Can you even see without those?” I teased as I hooked a leg around him and slipped my hands under his pants to squeeze his bum and draw him closer to me. I moaned involuntarily at the feel of his still partially-covered erection pressed against me.

“Do you doubt my abilities, Hermione Potter?”

“Only your ability to see.”

“I’d tickle you again to make you pay for that, but you’re rather naked, and I’m turned on enough that I’m going to let it slide.”

Before I could respond, he was moving down my body, pushing my thighs apart, and then - oh god. His tongue darted out, tentatively, and then with more assurance before he pressed a kiss between my legs. His tongue traced the contours of my body, seeking my clit, and his fingers pressed up inside of me, and after that it was a heady blur of fingers and lips and tongue. He enticed, he demanded, he wrung pleasure from my body, and before I knew it, I was coming undone, my thighs trembling by his head and my fingers clutching a handful of his black hair, his name a breathy moan as I writhed and shook and _felt_ , and it was exquisite bliss.

His teeth nipped playfully at my inner thigh, making me shriek and shudder as his fingers continued to lightly stroke me through aftershocks of pleasure.

“Wow,” I breathed out as I felt him press a kiss into my hip bone.

I reluctantly released my grip on his hair, and Harry moved atop me, nuzzling at my neck.

“That was amazing,” I sighed as I reached for him, tracing my nails down his back and over the curve of his bare arse. I wasn’t sure when he’d ditched his pants.

“I’ve wanted to do that to you since that night on the sofa,” he admitted, using his teeth on my ear lobe and making me shudder again.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“It was brilliant.”

He laughed then - a throaty sound - and kissed me again, and the taste of myself on his tongue was intoxicating, and I knew I wanted to make him feel as good as he’d made me. I pressed on his shoulder, and Harry let me roll him onto his back and take control. My lips, teeth, and tongue marked a path along a body that was both familiar and foreign to me as I mapped out the faint marks of scars, the dips and crests of muscle. Harry was hard muscle overlaid with pale skin and sparse dark hair. He was the scent of sandalwood and clove, of parchment and books and home. It was a potent combination.

I had only begun to explore his body when he grew impatient and guided my hand to his cock. I was hardly virginal, but I blushed like an innocent schoolgirl as I wrapped my hand around him and let him guide my stroke, showing me what he liked. I slid my fingers and palm down the length of him and back up again, reveling in the warmth and the slide of skin, of the groan I drew from him, of the length and girth of his cock. Something inside of me involuntarily clenched at the thought of impaling myself on that cock, and then again at the thought that it was mine, mine, _mine_ because he was _my_ husband, and I could experience this as often as we wanted.

I straddled his thighs and took in the sight before me: Harry’s head thrown back onto the pillow, mouth open in a long moan, his abdominal muscles flexing as my hands teased him and brought him pleasure.

I’d never been a huge fan of fellatio, mostly because I was never confident in my skill, but I wanted to give of myself to Harry, to give him everything. I wasn’t sure if this burning desire in me was spurred on by the magic of our binding, or if this was just us, our chemistry together, but for once in my life, I wasn’t going to question it.

I started to move off of him, to give myself space to bend over and bring my lips to the head of his cock, but he stopped me then, his fingers digging into my forearm.

“Wait.”

“What?” I asked, my hand still wrapped around him.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to do that - I do, fuck, believe me, I do - but I’m not going to last.”

My lips stretched into a grin, and I was inordinately pleased with myself.

“C’mere,” he said in a pleasing voice as he tugged on my arm and pulled me closer to him until I was straddling that glorious cock.

“You’re going to let me be on top? Our first time?” I couldn’t help the surprise in my voice.

I could now admit - even if only to myself - that Harry’s domineering Auror persona on display at the Ministry after our respective exes had crashed our wedding had awakened a tiny bit of a fantasy, of being dominated, of being pinned down and fucked into the mattress. It wasn’t the sort of thing I’d really experienced, as according to Ron, I was “bloody terrifying.” Apparently wizards who valued the safety of their ‘wands’ didn’t attempt to dominate witches like me, or some rot like that.

Harry grinned up at me in that cheeky sort of way of his that I was coming to adore. “I’m confident enough in my masculinity to let you be on top for now. Besides, what wizard wouldn’t want those tits bouncing in his face?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You love it.”

I opened my mouth to respond, and then stopped myself, for I realised in that moment that I was dangerously close to shooting back at Harry, “No, but I love YOU,” and that...I couldn’t do that. Loved him as a friend? Yes, absolutely. Loved him as my family, the only real family I had? Of course.

But loved him… as a _wife_?

We weren’t there yet. I knew we would get there, and I was beginning to think it would be sooner rather than later, but I didn’t want to spoil what was without a doubt the best sexual encounter of my short life by making a sappy, premature declaration of love.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, sensing my discomfort as I knelt above him, his hands on my arm and hip.

I shook my head and smiled at him. “It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

He sat up then, and for a brief flicker of a moment, I marveled at the abdominal muscles that flexed before me.

Harry let go of me to cup my face and hold my gaze. “I know we have to do this, but if you’re not ready, if you’re having second thoughts, we can wait… maybe do this later tonight.”

I glanced down at his very erect, very impressive cock and then back at his face. Harry noticed where my eyes had gone.

“He can wait. He knows it’s poor form to shag a witch who isn’t fully willing,” he said.

“Did you just…? Oh God. Don’t tell me you have some sort of name for it. It’s awkward enough that you just referred to your penis in the third person.”

He snickered and pressed a delicious kiss to my jaw and then my neck and my ear, making me shudder. I reflexively reached down, brushing my fingertips across his cock, enjoying the way his body twitched in response.

Harry nipped at my ear lobe. “I do not have a nickname for my penis, but I’m thinking ‘basilisk’ has a nice ring to it. Or did you want to name it?” he teased.

I couldn’t help it: I burst out laughing because ‘basilisk’ was such an utterly absurd, egotistical, over the top suggestion, and I knew he couldn’t possibly be serious. As usual, Harry had managed to draw me from my own thoughts and put me at ease.

“You are the absolute worst. I was rather turned on by your whole ‘dominant Auror-turned-secret-researcher’ thing, but you’re totally going to ruin it for me with the penis names,” I laughed as he hugged me close and pulled my hips down toward a cock I was probably forever now going to think of anytime I heard the word ‘basilisk.’

“So you’re saying I should stop talking then?”

Before I could respond, he shifted, and that deliciously hot, hard length slipped between my legs, brushing against me just so. Damn, he was good.

“Maybe,” I gasped out. “Do that again.”

He guided my hips in a torturously slow rocking motion, and I whimpered at the feel of his cock sliding through the wet folds of my body, the plummy head bumping my clit. It was shocking how quickly I’d gone from debating my feelings for Harry to laughing to now whimpering with need. I’d run the gamut of emotions in mere seconds, and I couldn’t wait to find out what other emotions he could evoke in me.

“I don’t need to wait,” I whispered to him.

Without hesitation, I reached between us and stroked his cock firmly one more time before positioning it and sinking slowly down onto him, making us both moan at the sensation.

Harry was big, bigger than I’d ever experienced, and he stretched me in the most intimate and incredible of ways, touching places no one had ever touched before. I clung to him, holding his head to my neck as he bottomed out and my inner muscles fluttered around him.

A warmth spread through me, originating - it seemed - from my core, where we were joined together. The feeling I’d experienced during our binding ceremony, that of a magical cord tethering me to Harry, flared within me in that moment. There was no visible display of magic as there was during the wedding, no purple and red undulating waves, no explosive shimmer of magical sparks, and yet I knew our magic was there, as integral to the consummation of our marriage as the actual sexual act. The tie that bound us twisted and turned, weaving new strands around itself, tying us irrevocably together. For better or for worse, Harry was mine, and I was his, and the magical, emotional, and physical connection between us overwhelmed me in the best of ways.

Harry lifted his head to gaze at me, a look of awe on his face as he breathed out a soft “wow.”

I nodded my agreement with his sentiment, as I could not seem to form words. Our magic, it seemed, had recognised our joining and was content with it, but I needed more, and I knew Harry did as well. I rocked my hips reflexively, marveling at incredible he felt inside me.

“Fuck, oh fuck, you feel so good,” he mumbled, his breath warming my skin. “Don’t stop, love.”

He let me lead our lovemaking, let me lift my hips and impale myself again and again on that glorious cock, let me experiment with what felt best to me, what angles made my eyes roll back in my head and my body shake on top of him as he caressed me and whispered his devotion, telling me how sexy I was, how much he wanted me, how he’d _always_ wanted me.

I rode him until the muscles in my thighs protested, and arousal dripped from my body and made an obscene squelching sound each time I dropped my hips down onto him. I rode him until I quivered with pleasure, and then I shoved him back onto the pillows and braced myself on the hard planes of his chest, his muscles taut beneath my fingers and rode him to an orgasm that left me gasping for breath before I collapsed bonelessly atop him.

Harry let me rest only for a moment before he rolled me onto my back and pressed soft, barely there kisses across my chest, jaw, and neck.

“That was, without a doubt, the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured as he pushed back into me, making my hips roll and my back arch up off the bed.

“Oh god,” I pushed out, feeling overwhelmed at the feeling of him on top of me, inside of me, as my body still twitched with the aftershocks of orgasm.

“Yes, love, hold onto me,” he said as I wound my arms around him, my fingernails digging lightly into his back. “You’ve had your fun, but I’m not finished with you yet.”

His strokes were hard and fast, and his hands held me tight, bending my body as he desired, pushing one of my knees up toward my chest in a way that made me cry out and plead for him: _please, more, don’t stop_.

I was in sensory overload. The air around me smelled like Harry and like sex, and I was surrounded by the sound of his body slamming into mine, of the moans and cries and grunts and whispered profanities and endearments that made up the symphony of sex. I could still taste the faintest hints of my own arousal on his tongue and in his kiss, and I could feel him on me, in me, everywhere around me.

My world had condensed to just this space on his bed - our bed - and the consummation of our marriage was communion, grace, a blessing of magic itself.

I could tell the end was near, could sense it in the frenetic pace of his thrusts, in the twist of his handsome features, in the way he groaned and dug his fingers into my skin in a motion that was just short of painful. I wanted to see it, I wanted to see him come undone, to know that I’d brought him the same mindless pleasure he’d brought me.

I gripped his hair, hard, pulling his face back to mine, making him push out a stuttered, “fuck.”

“Are you going to come?” I whispered, lifting my hips to meet him thrust for thrust.

His mumbled, “fuck, yes,” as he met my gaze sent another flood of wetness from me as he slammed into me harder this time.

I pulled him closer, close enough that I could bite - hard - at his earlobe, enjoying the shudder that passed through him. Yes, he was very close indeed.

“You feel so good,” I murmured into ear. “The way you fuck me. I want to feel you come. Come for me, Harry.”

He lost it then, and I had the privilege of watching him come undone above me. His final hard, deep thrusts wrung one last small orgasm from my body, and then he came with a final roar, spilling himself deep inside me before finally coming to rest, his body slumped atop mine.

I felt the magic that bound us flare once more and then fall silent, and I knew somehow that if our magic held any sentience that it was pleased. It was done. We were well and truly wed.


	12. New But Somehow Not

Chapter 12 - New But Somehow Not

We ended up sprawled together on the bed in a naked tangle of sweaty limbs and sheets, with most of the bedding shoved to the floor along with our clothes. I’d never particularly liked cuddling with someone immediately after sex - I was always overly conscious of the sweat on my body and my partner’s and the general stickiness of the combination of bodily fluids between my legs - but this, this was nice. I felt content lying beside Harry as his fingers lightly traced invisible patterns on my arm as he stared up at the ceiling.

“That was brilliant,” he finally said.

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“Did you… did you feel the way our magic came together?” he said softly.

“It was amazing.”

He rolled toward me, a hint of a smile on his face.

“I feel bad for all those poor sods out there, muggles who’ll never know what that feels like, to experience magic like that, as part of mind-blowing sex,” he admitted.

I giggled. “I’m glad it was mind-blowing for you.”

“It was pretty fantastic. If I’d known it would be like that, I’d have shagged you _ages_ ago.”

I laughed again as I thought about it then, really thought about it. What would it have been like to fall for Harry years ago? The idea that we’d wasted years when we could have been together as more than friends made me a bit melancholy. But then, if we’d pursued a romantic relationship years ago, would it have worked? We’d both needed time to adjust to life after the war and to give a relationship with our first loves a real shot.

Would I have even been emotionally prepared to enter a romantic relationship with Harry had everything not happened the way it did with Ron? It was an interesting thought to ponder. I’d spent an embarrassing amount of my childhood and teen years with a crush on Ron, and had we not at least given it a go, I think I would have always wondered what could have been. Sure, it had gone sour, as had Harry and Ginny’s relationship, but at least now we knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that we weren’t meant to be part of the Weasley family. We had a clean slate now, and that was what really mattered, wasn’t it?

“Your hair is a right mess, you know,” he said teasingly, brushing a lock of hair from my face and drawing me from my thoughts.

Even with the mass of sleekeazy I’d applied before the wedding, the hair around my face and the nape of my neck was descending into frizz and curls from the physical exertion, and the once-sleek ponytail was now half-undone and awkwardly smushed against my head. I heaved a sigh and sat up so I could jerk the elastic from my hair and finger comb it into what I hoped was a semi-decent look, although I figured it was probably a lost cause.

“Ugh, stupid bloody hair,” I muttered under my breath before tossing the elastic onto the bedside table.

“I like it.”

“What?” I was pretty sure the look I gave Harry then screamed “You’re barmy.”

“Your hair. It’s messy in a good way. It has that ‘I’ve just been thoroughly shagged’ look about it.”

 _Oh. Well, that was good, wasn’t it?_ I thought.

“If your hair is messed up, it’s because I made it that way, and if you must know, I’m rather proud of that right now,” he said in a teasing voice.

“Um, thanks, I think?” I mumbled as I dragged a sheet up over my body. I could handle sex with Harry - frankly sex with Harry was bloody fantastic - but I wasn’t ready for the casual intimacy of lying naked and exposed and _visible_ beside him.

“Um, Hermione?”

“Hmm?” I had to admit if only to myself that my body felt like muggle jello, and it was rather delightful.

“I, um… I realise now that perhaps I should have asked about this before, but um, are you using any kind of contraception?” he asked nervously.

I rolled over to face Harry.

“I mean, I know the law says we have to have at least two children, but we don’t have to do it straight away, and I’d planned to ask you before we did anything, but we sort of got carried away…”

“It’s fine. Really, it’s fine. I’m still on the potion.”

“Brilliant. That’s… perfect.”

He breathed a sigh relief before nervousness overtook him again.

“I mean, not to imply that if you hadn’t taken anything that it would have been horrid or anything of that sort,” he rushed to clarify. “I want children, I do, law or not. Just that we haven’t been married all that long, and we’re still trying to sort out this whole relationship thing and-”

I reached over and pressed my finger across his lips, shushing him.

“It’s fine. I know what you meant. We don’t need to rush into parenthood just yet.”

He looked relieved, and I was strangely comforted by the idea that when it came right down to it, everything had changed and yet it was still the same. Harry and I were married, and someday - sooner rather than later - we would create new life together, but he was still the same somewhat awkward reluctant hero he’d long-been, and I was still the bushy-haired, know-it-all awkward mess I’d always been and probably always would be. Somehow it felt right.

We lounged together in the bed for an age, wrapped up in Harry’s sheets as the sun dipped below the horizon and the light grew dim around us and Harry used his wand to light candles around the room. And then I discovered that my husband was downright sinfully handsome whilst nude and bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. It was a time of languid exploration, of light touches and quiet gasps, of learning each other in new ways after more than a decade of friendship.

The law required consummation, and we had already satisfied that need, but a more primal, human need spurred us to a second joining. This time it was slow and smooth with both of us on our sides and my hips rocking in time to his shallow thrusts. This time he buried his hands in my hair and tugged, hard enough to make me groan and realise that _bloody hell_ , I needed him to do that more often. This time there was no wave of magic crashing over me, no twining of my magic with Harry’s, just the intimacy of a husband and a wife, engaged in a dance as old as time, and it had a magic and a beauty all its own as he hit something inside of me in the most pleasing of ways that made me cry out and cling to him as I came.

It had been such a very long time since I’d last experienced the euphoria of a new relationship, where everything is exciting and passionate and wild, where my stomach fluttered with butterflies around my partner and he consumed my thoughts and my waking hours. My marriage to Harry was new, and yet Harry was not new to me nor I to him, and it felt as if I’d somehow found the best of both worlds. When we collapsed onto our backs again, breathless and sweaty, I felt comforted by the knowledge that both our magic and our bodies were well pleased with our marriage.

“That was fantastic,” he panted. “I’d say we need to do it again and again to make up for lost time, but I don’t think I can handle another go of it.”

I snickered. “Refractory time not quite what it used to be in your youth?”

We were hardly ‘old’ of course, but I couldn’t resist teasing him just a little bit.

He pinched me just above the waist, making me giggle and jerk away from him before I’d caught my breath.

“Well, that, and I’m pretty sure I’ll get a cramp in my arse if I try to shag you again in the immediate future.”

I laughed uproariously that time, pleased at how comfortable we were together.

“Well, by all means. Merlin forbid you get a cramp in your arse,” I said as I stretched and then reached for the sheet again. It felt vaguely sullied, and I wondered if Harry would turn his nose up at the idea of changing his sheets before we slept.

My stomach rumbled then, and I was suddenly aware that I’d not eaten anything since the light breakfast I’d consumed many hours earlier.

“We need food,” he said succinctly.

“Yes. Food. Food is good.”

He snickered at my utter lack of eloquence and kissed me again. Maybe food could wait…

~oOo~

In the end, food was important and neither of us was in the mood to cook, so Harry left with his invisibility cloak and slipped away from Grimmauld Place undetected, returning quickly with Chinese takeaway and two bottles of sake.

I was waiting for him in the kitchen, dressed in just my pale pink knickers and one of his old quidditch jerseys.

“I rather like you in my shirt,” he observed as he placed a large paper bag on the table.

“Thanks. I rather like stealing your shirt. You left without even asking me what I wanted,” I pointed out.

He snorted as he kicked off his shoes and stripped down to his pants.

“What?” I asked in response, distracted from the food by the sight of my new husband undressing in our kitchen.

“If you’re half-naked, I might as well be too,” he said with a shrug. “And for the record, I don’t need to ask you what you want from a Chinese restaurant: egg drop soup, an egg roll, and broccoli with beef with steamed rice, not fried. Oh, and chopsticks, because you think it’s uncivilised to eat Chinese food with a fork even though it’s much easier to pick up rice with a fork than with two sticks.”

I froze, my hand inside the paper bag, and looked at him, shocked that he knew exactly what I would have ordered had he given me the choice.

“What? It’s what you always get. I pay attention, you know. Auror, remember? Go ahead and unpack everything. I’ll get silverware and glasses.”

He nonchalantly wandered off, and I unpacked the bag. We ate Chinese takeaway on a semi-regular basis, but not _that_ often, and I did at least sometimes branch out from my standard order.

I pulled out a bottle of sake and smiled at the sight of the familiar label. It was the brand I always bought. Harry really _had_ paid attention, and I was touched by that. I had already used the chopsticks to take a bite of broccoli when Harry slid a plate beneath my carton of food.

“And you think me uncultured! Here, have a plate,” he said with a smile.

We ate in comfortable silence for a time before Harry brought my head out of the clouds and back to reality.

“So now that we’ve officially consummated the marriage and you’re well and truly stuck with me, we need to figure out what to do next,” he said slowly.

I put down my chopsticks and considered his comment, silently resisting the urge to cheekily suggest that shagging me senseless was an option.

“Well, to start, we need to draft an announcement to send to the _Daily Prophet_ ,” I said. “If we’re quick about it, we may be able to get it into tomorrow’s paper. I’ve no doubt there’s a Prophet owl waiting outside the wards to deliver a request for an interview.”

“Probably. Be sure to mention that I shagged you into the mattress right proper and all that so there’s no disputing that we’re married,” he offered before leaning over to snatch a piece of beef from my plate.

“I am not writing that,” I said with a blush, wondering if he knew just how much I’d wanted to suggest shagging rather than addressing practical matters related to our marriage.

“Ugh. Fine. Will you at least call me The Boy Who Lived to Shag His Wife?” he said as he chewed.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You wound me. You’re a mean, vicious, witch,” he said as he took another bite of sweet and sour chicken.

“Yes, but I’m _your_ mean, vicious witch, and I suppose we need to talk through how we’re going to word this marriage announcement and how we’re going to deal with our respective exes.”

I _accio_ ’d a leather portfolio and self-inking quill from the library and moved my food aside so I could take notes and begin drafting the announcement.

Harry was silent for a moment. “Unfortunately I don’t think we’ve heard the last from either of them.”

“Well, there’s nothing they can do about the marriage - you filed a betrothal contract, we waited 24 hours, we were bound by a Ministry officiant, we signed the marriage license, and we consummated the marriage straight away. Right? There’s nothing I’ve forgotten, is there?”

“No, you were thorough, as expected. We’re well and truly married, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I still can’t believe they did all that,” he muttered darkly, downing the rest of his sake.

Before he could reach for the bottle, I cast an _accio_ to pull both bottles to me.

“What are you doing?”

“You and I have done more than enough wallowing in alcohol in the last few months. Let’s not get drunk now,” I chided gently.

“Fair enough,” he sighed.

“Help me with this announcement, and then we can talk about Ron and Ginny,” I prompted.

Harry moved beside me at the table, and together we drafted an official statement about our marriage. It was succinct and formal: our names, Harry’s status as the last scion of the Potter family and heir to Sirius Black, the last-named Black heir, the date of our marital binding, and our mutual compatibility as determined by the Ministry. I’d initially thought to ignore the marriage law altogether in our announcement, but given the pushback we’d gotten from our exes, Harry thought it prudent to let the world know just how perfectly suited we were for each other from a magical standpoint. He figured anyone who wanted to come forward after the notice was published to try to contest our marriage in any way would be deterred by our high compatibility. At least, that was our hope, anyway.

We sent the announcement off with Concordia, the owl Harry had selected after the war. Replacing Hedwig had been a bittersweet event for him, but we’d both grown to love his new tawny and white barn owl.

Lifting the wards to allow Concordia to leave also meant allowing in the host of owls that had perched impatiently outside the windows of Grimmauld Place. Harry collected the letters, among them an interview request from the _Prophet_ , and a howler from Molly Weasley, which he exploded with a casual flick of his wand the moment it started screeching.

“God, that woman,” I muttered as I sorted the mail. “When is she going to get a bloody clue?”

Harry sighed. “I’m hoping before the birth of our first child.”

The mention of having a child with Harry sent an unexpected rush of emotion through me, and in that moment - for the first time since this whole marriage law mess began - I could actually picture a child with Harry. Our child. I wasn’t particularly ready to rush into parenthood or anything of that sort, but I found myself suddenly hoping that our future son or daughter had Harry’s beautiful green eyes.

“I’ve avoided saying anything rude to her because for such a long time, she was the closest thing I had to a mother,” he continued, “But enough is enough. She needs to know that we’re not going to put up with this.”

“What do you have in mind?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

I was uncertain how to handle Molly Weasley as well. Ignoring her clearly wasn’t working. Then again, the occasional howler was certainly more palatable than the more aggressive actions Ron and Ginny had taken.

“Ron and Ginny knew where to find us today. How?” I wondered.

His expression turned serious. “The betrothals are public enough. That we were engaged wasn’t exactly a secret. But the ceremony itself? There’s a leak in the Office of Vital Records and Registration, obviously. Someone had to have let the details of our binding slip, probably for a few Galleons.”

“Ron is far too cheap - and lazy - to bribe someone for information.”

“Ginny isn’t.”

He was correct. Ginny was absolutely not above spending a few Galleons - hers or someone else’s - to get what she wanted.

“If I had to guess, I’d say that someone has been selling out information for some time. Either that or Skeeter is still snooping in her animagus form.”

“Of course she’s still snooping in her animagus form. After all, that’s why we warded our offices against insects of all kinds,” I pointed out.

“True. But if Skeeter snooped in my records from the Auror office, she wouldn’t have given the results to Ginny. She’d have done something far more public with it all. My money is still on Percy Weasley for that, although I wouldn’t put it past Skeeter to sneak into the records office.”

I sat back in my chair and noted the far off look on Harry’s face that he got when he was trying to piece together a puzzle of some sort.

“What makes you say that? About Percy?” He’d suspected Percy since that day Ginny had approached him insisting they were a match, and I didn’t exactly dispute his theory, but the years I’d spent as Harry’s friend had taught me the value of prodding him with questions to help him think through a situation. He and I both still had some of that Gryffindor tendency to leap to action, but as we’d both grown and matured, we’d gotten better about exploring our options first.

“Someone gave Ginny access to my magical signature ahead of me going in for testing,” he said slowly. “So unless Ginny broke into confidential Ministry files herself, someone did it for her, and Percy is the most logical suspect. He works in the Minister’s office and could request access to those files without throwing up a smattering of red flags. I can’t think of anyone else who would have had been able to get access to the file _and_ been willing to give the results to Ginny so she could compare it with her own test.”

“True. I didn’t really think of him as being that devoted of a brother though.”

“He’s not. I don’t know that he really cares about his siblings’ marriages, but he’s such an ambitious, brown-nosing prat that I think he’d want to know what he could get out of their matches.”

“You think it’s about money, then?” I asked. “Wanting his sister to live in the lap of luxury?”

I said the last bit with a heavy note of sarcasm in my voice, for Harry absolutely did _not_ live in the lap of luxury. I did not know precisely how wealthy my new husband was, but I knew he was frugal with his Galleons and utterly practical about most things. I’d had to coax him into making the small changes to Grimmauld Place that he’d made after the war, he still wore the same pair of trainers he’d purchased in muggle London several years ago, and more often than not he carried his lunch to work with him rather than eat out. His top of the line quidditch racing broom was his biggest indulgence.

He stood then and cleaned up the kitchen with a wave of his wand.

“Let’s go to the parlor where it’s more comfortable.”

I curled up beside Harry on the sofa, still holding my portfolio and quill.

“You’re the Auror - so Percy is the most likely suspect, but what’s his motive then?” I asked, curious about his line of thought.

“I’ve been thinking about this since Ginny came to see me, and I think it’s bigger than just our exes being, well, patently absurd.”

I twisted a curl around my fingers. “Oh I don’t know. Ron does ‘patently absurd’ pretty well.”

I could tell Harry was deep in thought because he didn’t even snicker at what he’d normally consider a truthful and humorous statement about his once best friend.

“Surely Percy doesn’t think that Ginny marrying you would gain HIM access to your family vaults.”

“Well, if I died, it would.”

I looked at him in horror, and he was quick to hold up his hands in a gesture of appeasement.

“I don’t think Percy - or any of the Weasleys - are out to off either of us. That’s not what I meant. Just that if Ginny and I were married, and something happened to me, like in my work as an Auror, Ginny would inherit everything as my wife.”

“Yes, but given how many times you’ve cheated death, you don’t seem destined to an early grave,” I pointed out. “At least, you’d better not be. Do you think Percy intended you to marry Ginny so he could influence her in how your money was used?”

“Perhaps. I could see Percy running for Minister at some point, but it’s not like I would have leapt to bankroll his campaign or anything of that sort.”

I mulled over his words. A campaign for minister? It wasn’t as unlikely as it perhaps seemed at first. Percy had long been far more ambitious than the typical Gryffindor was known to be. Aligning his family with the “Boy Who Lived” would surely have been beneficial to Percy’s political interests.

“So you think that Percy wanted Ginny to marry you in order to build a base of support for a future campaign?”

“Possibly. I feel like there’s something I’m missing though,” he mused.

We were both silent for a long moment as I considered the possibilities.

“If you married Ginny, and I married Ron, the press gets their “Golden Trio” happy story, you and I both become Weasleys. It’s possible Percy might have thought he could lock up the support of both of us if we were family members. To be fair though, I think he’s an awful prat, and I’d only support him if he ran against someone awful. Like Fudge or Umbridge or someone like that.”

I bit my bottom lip as we both fell into silence again. Harry was right - there was something else there, something we were surely missing. Ginny marrying Harry would have been far more important to Percy’s political ambitions than me marrying Ron. Sure, I had a good reputation in the wizarding world, thanks to the role I’d played in helping Harry defeat Voldemort, and I’d built a solid career in the Ministry, as had Harry, but I lacked any family wealth or influence.

Objectively speaking, I was still a good match on the marriage market, as demonstrated by the surprisingly large number of wizards who’d matched with me or sought me out as a potential wife. I’d been operating under the assumption that Molly wanted me for Ron because I’d become rather good at filling the role of both girlfriend and surrogate mum, making sure he got to work on time and cleaned up after himself. But what if it was more than that?

I’d curled up beside Harry, and he was absent-mindedly playing with my hair as we sat in comfortable silence. The consummation of our marriage earlier this evening was so much better than anything I could have anticipated. We’d fit together so perfectly - emotionally, magically, physically - that it was hard to believe we’d somehow never found our way together before.

I pondered the situation with the Weasleys again before a thought struck me.

“Harry?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you know that saying, from ‘The Godfather?’ About keeping your enemies close?” I mused.

“Yeah, I think so. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right?”

The magic in Grimmauld Place kept us from having too many muggle electrical appliances, but after the war, Harry and I had made a regular habit of visiting muggle cinemas to watch classic films. His muggle relatives had rarely wanted to “waste” money by taking him to the cinema with them, and we both enjoyed the anonymity that came with being out and about in the muggle world.

“What if the push for me to marry Ron was about keeping me close?” I mused.

He frowned. “How so?”

“If I married Ron, I’d be out of the way and no longer an option for you, ostensibly clearing the path for Ginny to marry you. Plus the whole ‘Golden Trio’ war heroes would be part of the Weasley family. I haven’t fully given it the proper consideration, but in the long-term, I’m not opposed to the idea of running for Minister myself at some point - especially now that the Wizengamot is passing utter rubbish like the marriage law. But if Percy got there first, if he was elected after Kingsley either retires or is voted out, he could occupy that slot for a good long while, and by the time his terms were up or he was voted out, I might be too busy with young children to be viewed as a viable candidate,” I said slowly.

“Hermione, love, I have no doubt that you could be Minister for Magic, run the whole damned Ministry, AND be a good mum. If anyone can juggle all of that, it’s you.”

I was deeply touched by the sincerity in Harry’s voice.

“If I weren’t so focused on sorting out this drama with our respective exes, I’d tell you to take off your pants and shag me into the sofa for that remark,” I admitted.

He snorted with barely repressed laughter. “Duly noted. I’ll praise your brilliance and be a feminist later if it turns you on that much.”

His expression turned serious then. “I think you’re right though - Molly and Arthur would never approve of you having that sort of ambition when you had young children at home. If she had her way, marrying you off to Ron would have effectively moved you off the chessboard, so to speak. You’d be out of Percy’s way as a possible opponent.”

The pieces snapped together for me then, and suddenly, just like my attraction to Harry, the bigger picture was right in front of me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concordia, the name of Harry’s new owl, means "harmony" in Latin. This was the name of the Roman goddess of harmony and peace, and it seemed rather appropriate for this story. 
> 
> So… what do you think Hermione has realised? I look forward to your feedback on this chapter. As always, thank you for reading.
> 
> Cheers,  
> Elle


	13. Chapter 13

###  Chapter 13 - Plots and Schemes

“I don’t know how I didn’t see it!” I said, sitting up straight.

“What?”

“The Wizengamot seats! Percy’s after the seats. He’s got to be!” 

Harry stared at me for a moment, and I could tell exactly when the pieces snapped together for him as well.

“Fuck,” he breathed out softly.

“Exactly.”

As the last surviving Potter, Harry ostensibly controlled an inherited seat on the Wizengamot. As Sirius Black’s named heir, he also ostensibly controlled a second inherited seat as well. He should have had two votes on the governing body, but he was statutorily prohibited from claiming them until he was 25. A wizard or witch over the age of 25 could claim an inherited seat, but until then, only a male relative over 25 could act as regent, holding the seat temporarily and voting in place of the actual heir. 

Harry had no adult male relatives, and he was hardly alone in that regard. Two wars had wreaked havoc on wizarding Britain’s population, hence the supposed need for this accursed marriage law. We knew other young wizards and witches who should have had voting rights on the Wizengamot but didn’t because they were under 25 and without an older male relative. The patriarchal nature of the whole situation disgusted me beyond belief, as did the notion that had Sirius been given a fair trial from the start, he could have raised Harry and managed both seats. 

When Harry had learned of the Wizengamot seats after the war, I’d argued with Kingsley about the unfairness of the whole situation, as it was absurd that Harry’s two seats should just be left out of voting because of his age and lack of older male relatives. It had been that way for centuries, owing to a dispute around the time of the Statute of Secrecy, when several Hogwarts students inherited seats and caused enough disarray in the Wizengamot that the majority opted to set an age limit. Once power became concentrated in the hands of older wizards and witches, they were loathe to let it go, and the age limit rules had not been amended since then, despite several attempts over the years. 

“If I married Ginny, Percy could claim both those seats,” he said slowly, disgust creeping into his voice.

“Exactly. Well, I mean, Arthur would have a stronger claim as your father-in-law, but in practise...”

“You and I both know Percy is the only one in that family who’d actually do it. Arthur wouldn’t want to impose and would only do it if I asked him.” 

I nodded in agreement. Arthur Weasley was a kind man, but not overly ambitious, and he preferred to spend his free time tinkering with muggle toys, tools, and technology. Even if he’d agreed to take control of Harry’s seats, I couldn’t see him being especially good at it.

“Charlie is off wrangling dragons and doesn’t care much about British politics, and Bill is too busy with his own work and family to bother,” Harry continued.

It was my turn then to breathe out a soft “fuck” under my breath at the idea of Percy Weasley having two votes in the Wizengamot for the next few years. More than anyone else in the Weasley family, Percy resented the family’s poverty. He’d turned his back on his family during the war, moving away from the Burrow, and publicly denouncing the Weasleys in an attempt to get ahead and ingratiate himself with Ministry leaders. 

“Surely THAT was to be his route to the Minister’s office. To use the Wizengamot, plus the goodwill of the Golden Trio all of whom would have been part of his family, and my vaults,” Harry reasoned.

It was a logical theory, all things considered. The fastest route to becoming Minister for Magic was usually to serve on the Wizengamot or as a Department Head in the Ministry of Magic. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility to reach the top office without being a member of the Wizengamot or a Department Head, but it was highly unlikely.

Becoming a department head could be an interminably slow process, as many wizards and witches in that role chose to work well past 125 years of age, and as such it wasn’t often that head positions were vacated. As it was, Percy had a higher ranking job in the Ministry than he probably would have had if the war had not happened - enough people had died or left their jobs that he’d been able to leapfrog ahead. 

Getting on the Wizengamot was just as hard because so many of the seats were passed down through families, with a minority voted on by the general public, another element of magical Britain I found vexing. Competition for the elected Wizengamot seats was fierce and campaigns were expensive. The victors were usually relatives of existing Wizengamot members who weren’t in line to inherit a family seat but had connections, power, and Galleons - none of which Percy possessed. 

In my time working in the Ministry, I’d begun to learn the ins and outs of how power was distributed and how to work within the system to make changes. The existing structure of the Wizengamot allowed for power to be concentrated in the hands of the few, and backroom deals were made time and again as people advanced their pet projects or protected their financial interests. It was cronyism at its worst, and the marriage law was just one of many lousy decisions they’d made in recent years. 

If Harry had married Ginny, Percy, as an older male relative, would have been able to claim Harry’s two seats and vote on behalf of the Houses of Potter and Black for years before Harry could take them back. In that time, someone as ambitious as Percy could potentially put together a coalition of support to vault himself to the Minister’s office before Harry’s 25th birthday, especially if he found a way to access the Potter or Black vaults to fund his work. 

It was a sobering thought. It wasn’t as if Percy was evil, per se, but he wasn’t someone I trusted either. Kingsley had thus far been a reasonably decent Minister for Magic, but he was constantly thwarted by the Wizengamot and their desire to protect the status quo. If Percy was in that role, I couldn’t see him using his political capital to help the downtrodden, advance creature rights, or really even do much to change the host of laws that favoured purebloods over muggleborns and half-bloods. 

Percy had never been impolite to me at the Burrow or at school - not like Malfoy and his Slytherin cronies - but he’d also not been remotely warm to me either. I’d been welcomed enough in Gryffindor because I was Harry Potter’s best friend, and because I tended to win a lot of points for our house based on my academics, but Percy had certainly kept me at arm’s length over the years. He’d pay lip service to my contributions in front of Professor McGonagall or Professor Dumbledore, but I’d also once overheard him in the library, quietly debating some of the upper year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. No one had seen me - the little girl with too much hair hiding behind the stacks - but I’d not forgotten his disparaging words about muggles and his insistence that he was not a blood traitor.  

I’d seen it in practise at the Ministry as well: I’d found myself in opposition to him over some policy changes regarding hiring and promotions within certain job classifications. The policies were frankly discriminatory against muggleborns, and I’d done my best to get rid of them. He’d presented a very carefully worded argument to Kingsley that was downright Slytherin in its execution. He’d given himself enough leeway that I couldn’t come right out and argue that he was articulating a blood supremacist position, although I had no doubt that his comments were intended to be a proverbial dog whistle, his intentions perfectly clear to the old guard purebloods but not so overt that he could easily be called out for it. We’d each walked away with a partial victory that day - some changes were made and some were not. 

I did not think he was genuinely a blood supremacist along the line of Yaxley or Rosier or any of the other Death Eaters who’d been willing to kill for a cause, as Harry was a half-blood and at a bare minimum Percy appeared to be okay with Ginny marrying him. But just because someone doesn’t advocate for muggleborn internment camps or the other horrors perpetuated during Voldemort’s last war doesn’t make them a muggleborn ally either. So while the thought of Percy Weasley as Minister for Magic or a member of the Wizengamot didn’t inspire fear that he’d appoint someone like Umbridge to a high post, he also didn’t inspire any kind of confidence that he would bring much-needed, sweeping reform either. If anything, a desire to build personal wealth would probably make him susceptible to bribes.

I realised then that though we’d dodged a proverbial muggle bullet by marrying each other and preventing Percy from accessing Harry’s seats, he surely had other options.

“If that was the plan, then I’d bet money that he pushed Ron to consider as a backup wife someone like Susan Bones, who also inherited a seat she can’t claim,” I said, suddenly worried for the quiet former Hufflepuff who’d lost her entire family in both wars. 

“I’d bet you’re right too, although if Ron didn’t file a betrothal contract today, he’ll be matched with whomever the Ministry deems the closest magical match. You know, it says a lot about how much of a threat he considers you that he’d apparently rather Ron end up with you than with Susan.”

I frowned at that. Was I really worth more to someone like Percy than a mild Hufflepuff and her Wizengamot seat? I doubted I was truly that valuable but I decided to tuck that thought away for future consideration.

“How many seats are up for grabs in the Wizengamot?” I wondered aloud. 

I was up and walking to the Black family’s small library before Harry could even respond. I silently berated myself as my fingers danced across the spines of old books I’d perused over the last few years. Just as I had with the issue of domestic abuse, I’d allowed myself to be so narrowly focused on my own circumstances that I’d failed to see what was right in front of me, failed to see the big picture. How could I have forgotten about the Wizengamot seats? 

By the time I found the book on the history of the Wizengamot, Harry had made his way into the library. 

“You in my jersey and your knickers in the library is surprisingly hot, especially when you’re all bothered about something,” he admitted.

“Keep it in your pants. We can do that later,” I said, my mind focused on the text on the pages in front of me.

“That’s so cold.  _ So cold _ . Our wedding night, and my wife prefers books to me.”

“I shagged you before I turned to books,” I pointed out in my own defense, ignoring Harry’s quiet laugh.

“Okay, there are 55 seats on the Wizengamot, by statute, and 12 of them are elected seats. The elected ones are all full, of course. Now, of the remaining 43, how many are vacant because of situations like yours or being held by someone else because the heir is underage?” I mused.

“Does that book have a current list of members?”

“No, it’s old, but I think I’ve got a list of members with my notes.” 

Harry occasionally brought work home and worked with me in the library, but for the most part the room was my domain, and I often used it for research in addition to reading for pleasure. Two years ago, Harry had very thoughtfully refinished an old desk we’d found in the attic and brought it into the library for me as a birthday present. It was one of the best gifts he’d ever given me. 

I found the stack of parchments I’d written when the marriage law was passed, all of the angry notes and research I’d compiled on the law and supporting statutes, and the members on the Wizengamot. I scanned through the list, counting as I went.

“I think there are eight vacancies on the Wizengamot.” Eight did not sound like too many, but when there were only 55 seats total, 43 of them hereditary, we were talking about a sizable percentage of seats.

“That many?”

“I mean, we had a war just a few years ago, and one when we were babies. The Wizengamot cited that as being a source of our apparently decimated population levels.”

“That and inbreeding,” Harry muttered.

“That too.”

“Is anyone currently on the Wizengamot holding two seats? Or holding their own seat and acting as regent for someone else?” he asked.

I looked down at my notes. “I honestly don’t know. Prior to this stupid marriage law passing, my work hadn’t really given me much cause to interact with them.”

Harry had a faraway look on his face, and I knew he was putting pieces together in his mind. Remus Lupin had christened me the “brightest witch of her age” years ago, and the unfortunate moniker had stuck in some circles, but the truth was that Harry had an understated brilliance all his own. Had he been as keen on revising as I was in school, he would have given me a run for my money as the top student of our year each year. 

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“How close was the vote on the marriage law again?”

I sifted through my parchments and a handful of newspaper clippings. “It passed by four votes,” I said.

I raised my head and looked at Harry. He raised an eyebrow at me.

“Son of a bitch,” I murmured.

“Exactly.”

“If those seats had been filled…”

“We likely wouldn’t have a marriage law because very few people our age would willingly vote for this thestral shite law.”

“Now I’m wondering how many other laws were passed or legislation defeated because no one our age has access to those inherited seats,” I mused.

He grimaced in response. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

An awful thought occurred to me then. “Harry, you don’t think the marriage law was a set up, do you?”

“How so?”

“Let’s say Percy figured out that he could get his hands on two Wizengamot seats if you married Ginny. Then surely someone else had a similar thought. I mean, you were heavily pursued by a lot of witches because you’re Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, but how many of those witches had older male relatives looking to make a match that provided political power?”

He ran his fingers through his perpetually messy hair and paced the room. 

“I don’t… I don’t want to even consider that. I’m now thinking about that pompous arse from the Ministry who offered me his underage daughter, wondering if he was after the Potter and Black seats too and willing to sell off a child in marriage for it.”

He stopped and looked at me across the room. “Do you...I don’t even know how to say this. I mean, you don’t think we’re reaching too much on this do you? There was a time I don’t know that either of us would have made a connection between Percy, our exes, and the Wizengamot seats. Do you think war has made us both overly paranoid? Do you think we’re seeing conspiracies were none exist?”

I frowned as I considered his words. Were we being paranoid? It seemed like a damned large coincidence that exes who’d broken up with us and left us to our own devices for a time suddenly came rushing back to us once the law passed, and that they and Molly were both downright stalkerish in their pursuit of us. I’d chalked it up to Ron being dense and Ginny being spoiled and both of them deciding it was better to be with an ex you knew than a stranger, but it did seem odd that none of them would take “no” for an answer.

Then again, Kingsley Shacklebolt had been vehement about the need for a drastic boost in our population, and I’d seen some of the data myself. War plus too many years of intermarriage in a small population really had caused a great deal of damage. Perhaps there were other, better, more sane options than this law, but there genuinely was a need for a baby boom. 

“The concern about our population is real, but why jump straight to a marriage law? No one really even TRIED anything else. There were no public relations campaigns, no financial incentives for families to have more children until someone included them in the marriage law.”

“Do you think we’re being paranoid?” he repeated. “Because my gut instinct says we’re not.”

“What we have is a lot of speculation and circumstantial evidence,” I admitted with a sigh. “It would be helpful to know exactly who is waiting to turn 25 to fill their seats, who is currently a regent for someone else, and who those people were matched to or who petitioned for them under the law.”

A rather morbid thought occurred to me then. I was potentially valuable to Percy as a political opponent, but others who wanted to get to Harry might view me more as an obstacle to be removed.

I swallowed hard. “I suppose we’ll know one way or another if you’re being too paranoid if someone tries to break us up or tries to off me to clear a path to you.”

In the span of about a second, Harry crossed the small library and crushed me to him, wrapping his arms tightly around me and tucking my head beneath his chin.

“Never,” he murmured into my hair. “Don’t even joke about such things. I won’t lose you now.”

I relaxed into his embrace and wrapped my arms around his waist. 

“We’re married. No one can undo our binding,” I reminded him.

I felt the press of his lips in my tangle of curls and the tightening of his arms around me. “I’ve lost so many people I loved, who loved me. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, especially not because of me.”

I wriggled in his hold enough to lift my head and press my lips to his. “You’re stuck with me. I’m not going anywhere, and I’ve got your back as long as you’ve got mine.”

He kissed me again, with more desperation this time, and we were both a bit breathless when we finally broke apart.

“Are you sure I can’t shag you in the library?” he asked.

“No, Harry we can’t do that right now. We need-”

Anything else I’d planned to say was cut off by the sensation of his fingers tugging my knickers aside so he could stroke me intimately. I moaned and rolled my hips in response.

“That’s - you’re cheating.”

“One shag. Right here. I want to fuck you on your desk. Hard and fast.”

Something inside me spasmed at his words as he continued to touch me. God, how on earth had I truly not see how downright sexy he was before all of this? 

“Yeah, okay. Hard and fast,” I mumbled as I tugged his head down to the crook of my neck and shimmied out of my knickers.

Before I knew it, he’d used wandless magic to move my entire stack of parchments to a nearby shelf and had lifted me onto the desk. 

It was indeed hard and fast. I didn’t even get his jersey off my body before he was inside me, filling and stretching me. 

“Never...going...to look at this desk...the same way again,” I gasped as I clung to him and moved in concert with his thrusts. 

“That’s the plan,” he mumbled, giving my hair a sharp tug. 

“Oh fuck. Do that again!” I gasped.

He obliged, and he wrung an orgasm from my body before he came as well. Then he collapsed onto my desk chair and tugged me down with him. For a time, the only sounds in the room were our mingled breaths and the ticking of a clock.

“I can’t believe you just did that.” It was more than a bit mind-blowing just how much pleasure he’d brought me in the span of one evening. I didn’t even know my body could produce that many orgasms in short order.

“Why not?”

“It’s...it’s a library.”

He snorted. “It’s not like we defiled your books, love. I just wanted to give you another reason to love this room,” he said cheekily.

I smacked at his chest. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Oh without a doubt. It’s a good thing I’ve got you to keep me in line.”

I pulled my knickers back on and gestured to the desk. “I wouldn’t call what we just did ‘me keeping you in line.’”

He righted his own clothes and then shrugged. “Fair point. It was a nice distraction though. Okay, so we need information. Evidence. We need a list of all everyone who stands to inherit a seat.”

The way he rapidly switched from playful banter and our sex life back to the issue of Wizengamot seats and the marriage law nearly gave me whiplash. 

“Yes,” I said as I retrieved my notes from the shelf. And we need to know what laws have been passed by narrow margins and were affected by those empty seats.”

He nodded with a bit of a frown.

“I’m beginning to regret that we’ve not paid more attention to the political ins and outs of the Ministry,” he admitted.

“Agreed.” 

We’d needed time to heal after the war, time to cope, time to figure out who we were and what we wanted to do with our lives in a Voldemort-free world. I couldn’t begrudge either of us the time we’d devoted to beginning our careers or enjoying life - we deserved it after all we’d been through - but it seemed short-sighted of us in retrospect to just trust the older adults in positions of power. 

“The Ministry library has all the Wizengamot archives. They should have the list of heirs and regents, along with all of the voting records from the last few years,” I pointed out.

“And the Office of Vital Records and Registration should have the records of who matched with those heirs and who petitioned for them,” he added.

“Bollocks,” I said, looking at the mantle clock in the library. 

“What?”

“I hate that it’s far too late to go to the Ministry now. I don’t relish the idea of trying to slip this research into my day tomorrow either. You know Rita Skeeter will be after us about an interview, and all of our colleagues are going to want to ask about the wedding.”

Harry was quiet for a long enough moment that I looked up at him. 

“What are you thinking?” I asked, uncomfortably aware that an idea of some sort was brewing in his head.

“I mean, if you want to get technical, it’s only too late to go to the Ministry if you operate under normal business hours.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Harry James Potter, are you suggesting that we break into the Ministry of Magic?”

“‘Break in’ is such a harsh term. Not really  _ break in _ .”

“Because the last time we broke into the Ministry, it didn’t exactly go according to plan,” I said gently, thinking of Sirius’s death.

“Technically, it’s not illegal for ME to be at the Ministry at any time of day. Auror,” he said, pointing to himself.

“Yes, well that doesn’t apply to me.”

He grinned. “True. I guess then it’s lucky for you that I have an invisibility cloak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rowling has previously said the Wizengamot has about 50 members, but we don't really know a whole lot about their structure, responsibilities, membership, etc. Given that the UK has both a House of Lords with inherited seats and a House of Commons with elected seats, it made sense to me that the magical world would have a similar structure that allowed for the concentration of power in the hands of some of the old families. Obviously I took some creative liberties with the Wizengamot for this story and will continue to do so in future chapters.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who continues to read and comment on this story, and thank you to Frumpologist for talking me through this chapter and the next one.
> 
> Cheers,  
> Elle


End file.
